


Roots

by Victopteryx



Series: Roots [2]
Category: Naruto
Genre: Birds, Canon-Typical Violence, Historical Inaccuracy, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Inaccurate Japanese, M/M, Original Character(s), Politics
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-05
Updated: 2020-07-05
Packaged: 2021-03-05 06:42:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 22
Words: 48,456
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25100092
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Victopteryx/pseuds/Victopteryx
Summary: On the third day of spring, under a dark gray sky, Uchiha Madara surrendered himself to the Senju Clan.(Full Version)
Relationships: Senju Hashirama/Uchiha Madara
Series: Roots [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1817890
Comments: 110
Kudos: 270





	1. A Surrender

**Author's Note:**

> This first chapter is almost the exact same as the one-shot that preceded it in this series, except now there's a 48k fic attached to it. : )

On the third day of spring, under a dark gray sky, Uchiha Madara surrendered himself to the Senju Clan. He wore in a gray kimono and bore no weapons. He let them blindfold him and tie his hands.

This was how he was presented to Senju Butsuma and his sons - on his knees, with a kunai at his throat.

Uchiha Izuna was dead and cremated. His ashes were scattered in a quiet grove.

“Don’t tell me the son of Uchiha Tajima has come to defect,” Butsuma told his kneeling form.

“I have not come to defect,” said Madara. “I’m already dead. I will not fight anymore.” He raised his head slightly - the kunai at his throat raised with it - and his blindfolded eyes stared directly at Hashirama. “I surrender. Your youngest has killed my brother; let your oldest kill me.”

The guards looked at Butsuma. Butsuma looked at Hashirama. Hashirama’s face was calm and steady - this was not a clash on a riverbank, and he wasn’t twelve years old anymore.

“Honorable father,” Hashirama said quietly. “I would ask to speak to the prisoner alone.”

“Denied,” said Butsuma.

“No,” said Madara, simultaneously. The Senju guarding him shot him an incredulous glare.

“Honorable father –”

“Hashirama,” Butsuma said. “Out of respect for the clansmen his death here will save, I would grant his request that you be his executioner. He is correct, and it is fitting that my eldest be the one to take his life. But,” Butsuma’s voice lowered. “I grant you, Hashirama, only the mercy to end his life quickly.”

“And if I do not take it?” Hashirama’s voice was steady.

Madara said nothing.

“Then he will die by my hand,” Butsuma said. “He has come here to die, and I will oblige him this. His body will be returned to the Uchiha by the riverbank.”

Hashirama’s face was still, and his hands did not tremble. But there was bubbling anger in low in his throat when he said, “He said he will not fight. What threat is he to us? Why not –”

Butsuma did not strike his son. He, too, was older than he had been at the riverbank. He understood things now that he had not before. But when he raised his hand, Hashirama fell silent all the same.

“He is a threat,” Butsuma said, “Because he is here to be killed by _you_. Hashirama, do you understand?”

“Honorable father.” It was Tobirama this time. “I have a suggestion.”

“Speak, then.”

“Honorable father, Uchiha Madara’s death will protect our clansmen from his sword, it’s true,” Tobirama said. “But what of _his_ clansmen? Do they know he’s here? Does Uchiha Tajima know that he has surrendered himself to us?”

Hashirama sucked in a breath. He didn’t know where Tobirama was going with this, but it was surely better than Madara dying at his hands.

Butsuma was looking at Madara thoughtfully, brows creased. “Well, boy? _Does_ Tajima know where you are?”

Madara licked his lips. “No,” he said at last. “If I had told him my intentions, he would have killed me himself. And that… was not acceptable to me.”

“But dying to Hashirama was.”

Madara didn’t answer.

“Honorable father,” Tobirama continued, voice like sliding silk. “Maybe there is use in keeping him as a hostage? Would it not dull his clansmen’s blades to keep him here, alive?”

“It might just as easily sharpen them, Tobirama,” Butsuma said. “And hostages are not kept indefinitely. There are no demands I would make of the Uchiha clan to warrant the risk.”

“They won’t come for him, honorable father,” Hashirama said softly. “They know they can’t meet me on the field. Without Uchiha Madara, we would overwhelm them easily. And what demand have we but the cessation of hostilities between us? Even a temporary reprieve is still a reprieve.”

“Senju Butsuma,” Madara said hoarsely. “Do not inflict this on me. Deny me my death and I will be a terror on your house.”

“Honorable father,” Hashirama actually stood and walked before Butsuma, angling himself in front of Madara. His forehead touched the floor as he bowed in a deep _dogeza_. “I will take full responsibility for his actions. I will take responsibility for the clan. Please.”

“Full responsibility, huh?” Butsuma said. He closed his eyes and sighed. “Raise your head, Hashirama. It’s unbecoming.” He opened his eyes and gestured to the retainers at Madara’s sides. “Put him somewhere secure. Have Imori and Seisa guard him during the night.”

Madara’s face was completely expressionless as they pulled him to his feet. Hashirama didn’t turn to watch him leave, but remained kneeling in front of Butsuma, hooded eyes fixed on his father.

“What is your game, Hashirama? Tobirama?” Butsuma said quietly as the footsteps died away. They were alone in the room, the light from the oil lamp bouncing off the wooden walls.

Hashirama unclenched his hands. Tobirama spoke first.

“My only goal is the protection of our clan,” he said, sitting, back ramrod straight. “We would be wise to take advantage of such an opportunity as this.”

“Do the benefits of his life outweigh the benefits of his death, Tobirama?”

 _Yes_ , Hashirama shouted. _Yes, yes, yes, they do! A thousand times over!_

“Honorable father, we have control of this story,” Tobirama said. “With Uchiha Madara in our control, we can have them believe whatever we want. Maybe we captured him while he was away from camp. Maybe we rescued him from some terrible fate.”

“Honorable father,” Hashirama said. “What if we could use this to make peace with the Uchiha?”

Butsuma stared at him with flat disappointment. Tobirama’s nose scrunched up at the sides – he was displeased with what Hashirama had said, as well, but for different reasons.

“Hashirama, we’ve been over this,” Butsuma said. “They do not want peace. They don’t have the taste for it. Uchiha Tajima would never assent to a ceasefire with our clan, and the rest of our clan would never want it with theirs. There’s too much blood, Hashirama.”

“Then where does this end?”

Butsuma stood. “There _is_ no end, boy. This is what life is. This is what it is to live as a shinobi.” He made a sharp gesture towards Tobirama, who also climbed to his feet. “Tobirama, this will be our story – we have Uchiha Tajima’s son. Do not mention how he came to us. We will let them make us an offer. If they can give us something with equal value to Uchiha Madara’s death, then we will return him to them unharmed. If they cannot, then we will grant his wish.”

Tobirama bowed deeply and left, but not before sending Hashirama a low glance.

“Hashirama,” Butsuma said. “Stand up.” Hashirama unfolded his legs. “You say you will take responsibility for this Uchiha. I will hold you to this. You are to ensure he does no harm to the clan; that he has no contact with his family; that he has no chance to see or hear clan secrets or gain information that he could take back to his family. Do you understand?”

“Yes.”

“You will be his guard, Hashirama. When we go to battle with the Uchiha, you will go with us, and Imori and Seisa will take your place.”

 _He could overpower them in an instant,_ Hashirama wanted to say. He said nothing.

“Go, then, if you understand.”

And thus, Uchiha Madara became a hostage of the Senju Clan.

* * *

Hashirama found Seisa and Imori standing outside a storage shed, near the outskirts of the Senju encampment.

“You locked him in a shed?” Hashirama asked.

Seisa shot Imori an embarrassed side-eye. “Butsuma-sama said to put him somewhere secure, Hashirama-sama.”

“I know he did, it’s just…” Hashirama scratched his neck and laughed awkwardly. “I’m pretty sure he could easily get out if he wanted to?”

“We don’t really have a prison, Hashirama-sama.” Imori said slowly. His ears were turning pink.

“Well, this is fine, I guess!” Hashirama clapped him on the shoulder. “I’ll take it from here.”

“Hashirama-sama?” Seisa asked, drawing her eyebrows together.

“It’s _fine_ , father said I’ll watch him! Go on back to your homes. It’ll be _fine_ ,” Hashirama insisted, gently steering the two of them away from the shed door. Imori’s face had turned bright cherry red the minute Hashirama’s hand had landed on his shoulder and stayed that way as he was gently pushed down the path. Seisa just looked resigned. Hashirama waved cheerily at their disappearing backs, then turned back to the shed door.

“Are you still alive, Madara?” He said through the wooden boards. No response. “I’m coming in!”

The shed had clearly been cleared in a hurry. Barrels and sacks were shoved haphazardly against the walls, leaving a small dusty square of floor. Madara kneeled in the middle of the shed, still blindfolded and restrained.

Hashirama knelt down in front of him. “I’m going to untie your hands,” he told him. “I’ll let you remove your blindfold.”

Madara still said nothing.

The minute Hashirama’s small, sharp knife cut through the thin cord around Madara’s wrists, he lunged forward, pulling the blindfold off as he went. His hand slammed into Hashirama’s neck and forced him back onto the ground.

Madara’s eyes were red. There were no _tomoe_ in his eyes anymore – thick black circles spun in their place. Hashirama felt the bottom of the world drop out from under him.

“You couldn’t just _let me die,_ could you, Hashirama?” Madara snarled. He was kneeling over Hashirama’s torso, one hand on his throat, the other fisted in his haori. “You had to deny me _even this_.”

Hashirama knew, logically, that he was lying on the floor of the shed. That didn’t help his eyes, which were telling him he was plummeting through a black void. Madara’s balled fists and the knee pressing down on his thigh were the only points of contact Hashirama could feel, and he focused on them, willing himself to concentrate on his words.

“I don’t want to kill you,” Hashirama managed. “Madara, there is nothing I want less than your death –”

“Nothing you want less? Really?” Madara let out a wild laugh. “What about Butsuma’s death? Tobirama’s? What if I slaughtered your whole clan, would you kill me then?”

“You wouldn’t, though,” Hashirama said simply. He couldn’t see Madara’s face in the void, but when he reached his hand out, his fingers brushed cool skin. “I trust you.”

The genjutsu melted away, the colors bleeding back into Hashirama’s surroundings. He had fallen back against the doorframe, his shoulders pressed painfully against the beam.

Madara’s head was bowed. The delicate points where Hashirama’s fingers had brushed his skin burned. He let his hand drop. The hand that was around Hashirama’s throat loosened, as well, and slid down to rest on his collarbone.

“You really shouldn’t,” Madara muttered. “I’m your enemy. I could’ve killed you a hundred times over in that genjutsu and you would’ve let me.”

“Yeah,” Hashirama said. “You didn’t, though.”

“I didn’t,” Madara agreed. He didn’t look up. “What will Butsuma demand of the Uchiha?”

“He’s going to let them make an offer.”

Madara snorted. “If Tajima even wants me back,” he said. “I’m disgraceful. No one in their right mind would follow me as clan head.”

 _I would_ , Hashirama wanted to say. “I would,” he said.

“You don’t count,” Madara said, raising his head at last. “You’re kind of dumb.”

“Ah…” Hashirama said. He hung his head. “I know. I’m worthless. They should just lock me in here, as well. I’m garbage.”

Madara sighed, aggravated, and pulled himself off of Hashirama’s slumped form. He sat back on his haunches and observed him through dark black eyes. “You really haven’t changed,” he mused. “What do you think you’ll get out of this, Hashirama? Keeping me alive?”

Hashirama scooted back into a proper sitting position, taking the pressure off his shoulder. “I want peace,” Hashirama said.

“Again, with this…”

“Again, with this, yes. I want _peace_ , Madara. You do, too, I can see it in your eyes.” Hashirama’s fingers touched Madara’s cheek again. “I don’t know how, but I know that you are part of it. I will never make it there without you.”

“Hashirama,” Madara murmured. His hand came up to touch Hashirama’s. “I have no godly idea what you’re babbling about. Our childhood dreams are dead.”

“No,” argued Hashirama. His other hand came up to cup Madara’s jaw. “Our dream is alive and we are going to make it happen. I _promise_. We will see peace between our clans before we die. I know it.”

Madara pulled his head out of Hashirama’s hands and held them between his own, face solemn. “I think,” Madara said, “You’re kind of full of shit.” Hashirama could see his eyelashes brush his cheek every time he blinked. “Hashirama…” Madara’s dark, dark eyes lowered. “Izuna is dead. My little brother is dead at _your_ brother’s hands, because I couldn’t protect him in time.”

“You still deserve peace,” Hashirama said.

“None of us _deserve_ peace, Hashirama. If there is to be peace, it will be carved out of everyone around us. It’ll be built on the bones of the children we wanted to protect.”

“It doesn’t _have_ to be,” Hashirama insisted. “We haven’t _tried_! How are you so sure it will fail? Why do you have so little faith in us? In me?”

Madara shook his head. “It’s not a question of faith.” Madara dropped Hashirama’s hands and ran one through his hair. “I’m exhausted. Hashirama, they will expect my hands to still be bound in the morning.” His eyes slid pointedly to the cut cord on the ground.

“I don’t really care what they expect,” Hashirama said. “Butsuma said I am to be your guard, and that means I’ll decide how you are held. I’m not tying your hands and I won’t let you sleep in the shed.” He stood.

“ _Let_ me sleep in the shed? You think I _want_ to sleep in the shed?” Madara asked him incredulously, still squatting on the floor.

“At this point, I wouldn’t be surprised. Come on,” Hashirama said, extending his hand.

With an air of resignation that was remarkably similar to Seisa’s from earlier, Madara took it.


	2. An Ultimatum

The next morning saw Tobirama summoning Yatagarasu. The crow stretched his wings and shook out his feathers, three legs gripping tightly to Tobirama’s arm.

“I need you to deliver a message to the Uchiha clan,” Tobirama said.

Butsuma stood behind him, arms folded. Surrounding them were a group of Senju retainers and shinobi, Madara and Hashirama among them. Madara was again blindfolded, but this time his hands were bound in front of him. Hashirama stood with a hand on his shoulder. It was early, and the air was still cold.

“Tell them we have Uchiha Madara. You can attest that we have not harmed him thus far. We await their response.”

“And his eyes?” said Yatagarasu in a deep voice.

Hashirama pulled the blindfold free. Madara’s sharingan spun in the morning light.

“Very well. I will bring you their response.” The crow spread his wings and launched off of Tobirama’s fist, towards the thick forest.

The assembled crowd watch it disappear into the tree line, and Hashirama felt a stirring of unease. He tied the blindfold back over Madara’s eyes with a whispered, “Sorry.”

The crowd slowly dispersed. Butsuma came to stand before the two of them, looking weary.

“Hashirama,” Butsuma said. “Why wasn’t the hostage under guard in the shed this morning?” A young woman walking past snorted loudly. She quickened her pace as Butsuma shot her a dark look.

“Was I supposed to leave him in there?” Hashirama asked, eyes wide. “Honorable father –”

“I’m not in the mood, Hashirama,” Butsuma said curtly. “He needs to stay in the shed. It’s secure, and I don’t want to risk him getting loose.”

“He’s not a _dog_ , honorable father.”

“He’s a dangerous enemy combatant who has killed numerous clan members.”

“Hashirama,” Madara interrupted. “Just do what he says.”

“You don’t get a say in this,” Hashirama said.

Butsuma raised his eyebrows.

“Hashirama, I am your prisoner, not your plaything.” Madara’s voice was cutting. “Just lock me in the shed until you have the guts to kill me.”

Hashirama ignored him. “Father, I’m the strongest shinobi in our clan. If the seals fail, or if he escapes, it will fall to me to address the situation. It is better that he stay at my side, where I can keep an eye on him.”

Butsuma crossed his arms. “And how would that work, exactly? You’ll ask us to remove the blindfold and unbind his hands, next?”

Hashirama blinked guilelessly and said, “Yes, that would be my next request. How is he supposed to see where he’s going?”

Butsuma shook his head. “No, Hashirama.” He waved his hand. Seisa materialized at his side. “He stays in the shed. You have duties you need to attend to.”

“How am I supposed to be his guard if I am ‘attending’ things?” Hashirama demanded. “You made me swear that he would not be a threat to the clan. The only way I can keep him out of trouble is by having him with me.” Hashirama was trying not to sound petulant, but he felt like this was getting ridiculous. Why were they so insistent on keeping Madara locked away?

“Hashirama,” Butsuma began.

“Father,” Hashirama said. “This Uchiha is not a threat. He could’ve broken free at any time already and he hasn’t. His hands are bound in _twine_. He can breathe _fire_. If he wanted to escape, he would have done so already.”

Madara was silent. Butsuma stared at him, then Hashirama. He seemed irritated and displeased in equal measure. As if explaining to a small child, he said, “Hashirama, it doesn’t matter if he wants to escape at the moment or not. He is still a threat. He is going back into containment. I will not discuss this further. Seisa.”

Seisa stepped forward and put her hand on Madara’s elbow. As she began guiding him away from the meeting place, Butsuma stepped forward into Hashirama’s field of vision.

“I am being lenient with your disrespect because I know you are speaking from a place of concern,” he said, in a deadly quiet voice. “Were you still a child, I would not have wasted my time _explaining_ to you why we need to restrain our prisoners. The fact that you don’t comprehend this simple concept is very worrying to me, my son.”

Hashirama could not meet his gaze.

“When you lead this clan – _if_ you lead this clan – you will be expected to know how to treat a hostage like this. We are not being cruel, Hashirama. We haven’t removed his eyes, though great the danger they pose. We are keeping him sheltered and fed. This is more than could be said for many in his position.” His father rested a heavy hand on his shoulder. “I know you have… history, with this Uchiha. But you cannot let that affect your judgment so easily.”

“I will not kill him,” Hashirama said. He finally looked Butsuma in the eye. “I understand the threat he poses. He’s an extremely powerful shinobi. I know, father. But…” Hashirama couldn’t voice what he was feeling. It was enough that he’d come to their doorstep begging for death – was it really necessary they treat him with such indignity on top of it? How could Hashirama explain how _wrong_ it was, to see Madara blindfolded and restrained?

“If you will not kill him, then I will, as I have said.” Butsuma said. “We will see what response the Uchiha send in return for Tajima’s firstborn. If their terms are unacceptable, then I will cut his head from his shoulders.” He gazed at Hashirama coolly, though not without compassion. “Hashirama,” he said. “I have seen shinobi seek death like this before. To deny it to him now, in the way he wishes, is to render it to him bloodier and more painfully later on, you understand? These situations never end well.”

“Honorable father,” Hashirama took a step back, and then another one. He bowed stiffly at the waist. “I understand my duties as your firstborn son. I understand the conflict we have with the Uchiha clan. I understand that Uchiha Madara has come to us seeking his death.” He paused, torso still bent. “I would humbly ask that you consider that I do not care what Uchiha Madara wants.” He straightened. His face was a stony mask. His stomach was churning. “I would also humbly request… no. I would like you to _know_ that you will not touch him.”

Butsuma looked shocked, then coldly furious. It was probably a good thing no one had stayed in the clearing with them, Hashirama reflected.

Hashirama stared Butsuma in the eyes. “Were this any other Uchiha – were this any other shinobi – I would accede. I know my place. But I will not abide Uchiha Madara’s death at the hands of any – but my own.” He faltered near the end. But it was true – as true as anything Hashirama had ever said. He repeated it, voice low but strident. “I will not let anyone else kill him. And I _will_ not kill him.”

“Hashirama,” Butsuma’s voice was dangerous. “You are walking a _very_ fine line.”

“Honorable father,” Hashirama bowed again. “I would not dishonor you before the clan by publicly speaking to you as such. But I thought you should know my true feelings on this matter. Regardless of the Uchiha response, Madara will not die at our hands.”

“Were you anyone else in the clan, I would have your tongue cut out.”

“Were I anyone else in the clan, I would deserve it,” Hashirama said. “I might deserve it still. But how would I use the _mokuton_ to protect us if I had no tongue? How could I take your place if I could not speak?”

“You assume yourself invincible, Hashirama? You think you’re irreplaceable? Did you forget I have more than one son?”

“I am not threatening you, honorable father. I want what is best for the clan, as I always have.”

“Do not call me ‘honorable father’ in one breath and speak with such insubordination in the next.” Butsuma wanted to hit him. Hashirama could almost _smell_ it. The air between them was frigid. “Go find your brother – now. There are patrols that must be done. Do not speak to me again unless I call for you.”

“As you wish. Would you still have me guard the hostage?”

“What good could you possibly be, if you refuse to lay a hand on him?” Butsuma spat. “What a useless son I have. Tend to your duties, Hashirama. Do not speak to the hostage.”

Hashirama left. He did not speak to the hostage. He went to find Tobirama. He went on patrol. He attended to the concerns of his clan mates. He took stock of supplies and arranged for the clan to fill what stores were lacking.

He did not speak to the hostage.

* * *

When night fell, he took two bowls of food from Yuma, his great aunt, who smiled warmly and gave him an extra serving of pickled cabbage and made his way to the small wooden shed.

A young shinobi named Kaito was standing guard outside the shed.

Hashirama lifted a bowl in greeting. “Ah, sorry,” he said, ducking his head and smiling apologetically. “I didn’t realize there would be anyone posted here! I would have brought you one too.”

Kaito didn’t respond but lifted a shoulder in a half-shrug.

“I don’t think he’ll try anything while I’m here,” Hashirama said, gesturing towards shed with one of the bowls. “So, if you want to go grab some food from Yuma, now would be the time.”

Kaito eyed the bowls of food hungrily for a second, then snapped to attention, bowing briefly at the waist towards Hashirama before disappearing in a cloud of smoke.

Hashirama thumped the door to the shed with his foot. “Madara!” There was no response, but he wasn’t expecting one by now, anyway.

Madara was lying face-up on the floor of the shed. Someone had come in at some point and removed the rest of the barrels and sacks and had brought him a bucket and blanket. He didn’t move as Hashirama pulled door shut behind him.

“I brought you food,” Hashirama said, leaning directly over his face. “It’s good! Yuma made it.”

“Who is Yuma.”

“My great aunt. Sit up! Eat!”

“Make me.”

Hashirama rolled his eyes and sat next to him on the floor. “What are you going to do, starve yourself? That’d be pretty childish of you.”

“No less childish than your refusal to do _your_ _job_ and end my life.”

“How is refusing to end your life childish?” Hashirama asked. He set the second bowl of food carefully on Madara’s chest.

“Either kill me or leave me alone, Hashirama.”

“No.” He took a large bite of cabbage and chewed noisily. “Did you meet the shinobi who was guarding you, just now?”

“…”

“Well, he’s not guarding you _now_ , but he was before I showed up.” Hashirama took another bite. “His name is Kaito.”

“I don’t care, Hashirama.”

Hashirama paused, holding the bowl in his lap. “His father was killed by Uchiha Izuna.”

Madara was very still. Hashirama could just barely see the bowl on his chest shift as he breathed. “Why are you telling me this? What purpose does it serve?”

“Does it have to serve a purpose?” Hashirama wondered. “If it serves any purpose… it’s to remind myself, I suppose.”

Slowly, Madara turned his head to look at Hashirama.

“I never knew Izuna,” Hashirama said. “Not like I know you.” He paused, expecting Madara to make some comment at that – something to the effect of, _You never really knew me, Senju fool_ , something like that – but it never came. Hashirama broke apart a clump of rice with his chopsticks. “The only thing I knew about him, really, was that he was a formidable fighter… and your younger brother. I think I tend to… gloss over… the reality, sometimes. The reality being that our families really do hate each other.”

Madara suddenly snorted. “You think?” He lifted the bowl off his chest and sat up. There was a piece of straw caught in his hair.

“I wish it wasn’t so,” Hashirama said. “I wish I didn’t have family members who’ve lost loved ones to Uchiha raids. I wish Izuna hadn’t died at Tobirama’s hands. I wish we could…”

“We can’t,” Madara said simply. “We can’t, whatever it is you’re about to say. It doesn’t matter.” Finally – _finally ­_ – he picked up his chopsticks. “My wishes for the future died a long time ago. Izuna…” He trailed off.

“Butsuma is waiting for a response from your clan,” Hashirama said. “I don’t know what will happen if he doesn’t like their offer.”

“I think he’s made it clear what will happen.”

Hashirama watched Madara slowly picked up a piece of pickled cabbage and put it in his mouth. “No,” Hashirama said. Madara’s dark eyes slid over to him. “It’s not clear what’ll happen, because he is not going to kill you.”

Madara swallowed and raised his eyebrows. “Are you?” he asked wryly, as if he knew the answer.

“No,” Hashirama said.

Madara made an exaggerated gesture with his chopsticks. “Well, if _he’s_ not going to kill me, and if _you’re_ not going to kill me –”

“Yeah,” Hashirama said. “We might have to get Tobirama to do it for us.” _WHY DID YOU SAY THAT?_ Hashirama grimaced internally. They’d _just_ been talking about Izuna. Stupid, stupid.

Madara let out a sharp puff of laughter. “You might be right,” he said, pushing the food around in his bowl. “ _He_ probably wouldn’t hesitate to put a kunai through my neck, so I suppose he has that going for him.”

“Tobirama has good points,” Hashirama said.

Madara didn’t look impressed. “You’ll forgive me my skepticism.” He looked at Hashirama again through the curtain of his hair. “You know, in the Uchiha clan, we don’t do this.”

“Eat?”

“No, dumbass. We don’t keep hostages like this.”

“That’s not really surprising,” Hashirama said. “Hostages are expensive.”

“Hn.”

They ate in silence for a moment.

“We would’ve killed you immediately,” Madara said suddenly. “There wouldn’t be any of this… exchanging terms. Killing you – or even Tobirama – would outweigh anything your clan could offer. No question.”

“Harsh.”

Madara’s eyes bored into him. “So, the question I’ve been asking myself is this: am I so little a threat that the Senju clan can trade my life so easily? Or is the Senju clan simply wealthy enough that they can detain me indefinitely?”

Hashirama knew what Madara was doing. He ate some rice and thought for a moment, looking away from Madara’s burning gaze. “I think,” Hashirama said. “The real question that should be asked is not, ‘Why can the Senju clan so easily bear the burden of your continued existence,’ but rather, ‘Why would you so quickly deprive the Uchiha clan of its greatest asset?’”

“I am depriving them of nothing,” Madara said.

“Really? You’re _not_ the greatest warrior the Uchiha clan has to offer?” Hashirama asked. “I’m beginning to wonder if _I_ should be insulted, then. Since we were evenly matched on the field.”

“We _weren’t_ evenly matched, and you _knew_ it,” Madara hissed. “I’m tired of this, Hashirama. The Uchiha will survive, with or without me. Tajima isn’t dead yet, he’ll have another son.”

“Your death will affect your father, too, you know.”

“Don’t pretend you care about what happens to Uchiha Tajima, Hashirama.”

“I care _because_ he is your father,” Hashirama said sharply. “If I meet him on the battlefield, I will do him the honor of a fair fight. He is my enemy. But _you_ –” Hashirama pointed at Madara angrily with his chopsticks. “– _you_ are my friend. I would kill your father if I had to, but I wouldn’t make him _suffer_. He might be my enemy, but he’s the father of a person _dear_ to me.”

Madara seemed speechless. He looked down at the bowl he held in his lap. “It’s a wonder you survived into adulthood, Hashirama,” he said quietly. “Baring your heart on your sleeve like that. It’s unbecoming.”

“I’m not really worried about seeming becoming, these days,” Hashirama said. He stood. “I’m done. I’ll be on patrol tomorrow, but I will come back again before nightfall.”

“Do what you like,” Madara said. He’d barely eaten any of the food.

Hashirama left.


	3. A Fall

_Thwack_. _Thud-thud-thud-thud._

Hashirama landed on his feet, panting. Four shuriken and a kunai were embedded in the tree above him.

The kunai was two inches below the target.

Hashirama sighed, and started walking back up the tree, chakra pooling in the bottom of his feet. It was always the kunai – he could throw a shuriken through a hairline crack, but something about the weight of the kunai always made him over or undershoot.

He pulled the kunai out of the rough bark and collected the shuriken. Then he exploded off of the tree, flipping through the air.

_Thwack. Thud-thud-thud-thud._

Hashirama could tell before he’d even landed that he’d missed again. Damn it. He landed on the balls of his feet.

“Hashirama.”

He turned, startled. “Oh, Tobirama! What’re you doing out here so early?”

Tobirama was already dressed in his armor. He raised an eyebrow. “Early? It’s almost midmorning. I came to find you, we’re all ready to go.”

“It’s almost midmorning? How?” Hashirama said. He looked up – sure enough, the sun was beginning to shine through the canopy overhead. “Have I really been out here this whole time?”

Tobirama frowned. “You made father worried when you didn’t show up for breakfast.”

Hashirama rolled his eyes. “I’m not a child, I’m allowed to miss a meal or two.”

“That’s not why he was worried.”

Hashirama ran back up the tree. “Did you say you were coming with us on patrol?”

“Yes,” Tobirama said, watching him wrench the kunai out of the bark again.

Hashirama twisted through the air and landed with a bounce. “Let’s go, then!”

* * *

That night, Hashirama was intercepted on his way to Madara’s prison.

Tobirama was leaning against the wall of the shed. The seals visibly flared where he back met the boards. “Anija,” he said, dipping his head. His sword was leaning on the wall next to him.

“Tobirama!” Hashirama said. “I didn’t expect you to be guarding Madara tonight. Where’s Kaito?”

“Training,” Tobirama said. He nodded towards the bowls in Hashirama’s hands. “You’re a bit late. The hostage has already been fed.”

“Oh,” said Hashirama, deflating a little. “Well, have you eaten yet?”

“I have,” Tobirama said. “Go on, Hashirama.”

“I can take over for you for an hour or so, if you’d like!”

“No, thank you. I’m fine here.”

“It’s no trouble – and I’m sure you have things you’re working on, right?”

“They’ll keep, anija _._ ”

Hashirama shifted from foot to foot but didn’t leave. Tobirama sighed but didn’t move away from the shed.

“Tobirama…”

“Anija, you need to be more careful,” Tobirama said. “Personally, I don’t care. But there are others who might.”

“Care about what?” Hashirama asked, confused.

Tobirama levelled him a flat glare. Tobirama was good at those. “You know,” he said.

“Can I at least leave him the bowl?” Hashirama asked. “What if he gets hungry later?”

Tobirama smacked his forehead. “Anija, you really don’t get it, do you?”

Hashirama huffed. “I must not, little brother. Why don’t you explain it to me?”

“Our father has requested that you be kept away from the hostage, Hashirama.”

“He _what_?” Hashirama asked, aghast. “Why?”

“It might have to do with the fact that you already _threatened_ him over it.” Tobirama’s voice was ice-cold.

“I never threatened him,” Hashirama said, equally coldly. “If that’s what he said happened, then he is misleading you, little brother.”

“Misleading or not, he has a _point_ , Hashirama – one that you’re refusing to see.” Tobirama actually stepped away from the shed, this time, and stabbed his index finger into Hashirama’s chest. His voice was low. “You are too attached to this hostage. It _will_ become a liability, and liabilities get our family killed.”

“I think you’re overreacting,” Hashirama said. “I’m literally just bringing him soup.”

“It’s not your place to bring him soup. It’s not your place to let him out of his cell, or talk to him, or be anywhere near him. The only thing it is your place to do is either hand him over in an exchange or fulfill his wish and remove his head.”

If Hashirama hadn’t been holding a bowl of miso broth in each hand, he would’ve struck Tobirama. As it was, he roughly shoved one of the bowls into Tobirama’s chest and said, “Here. In case you get hungry, then, little brother. Or in case the hostage gets hungry. Or a dog. I’ll be on my way.”

“Hashirama,” Tobirama’s voice stopped him as he turned to leave. “Don’t be angry with me, anija. I understand your feelings. But you have to remember that _we_ are your family. I just want you to be careful.”

“Thanks for the reminder, Tobirama,” Hashirama said, without turning. He poured his broth into a bush as he left.

* * *

On the fourth night, Hashirama did not try to go see Madara. He practiced his katas in the training yard. He sparred with a furiously blushing Imori. He wrote letters and read messages from other clans. He avoided his father’s stony gaze.

When night fell, Hashirama ate fish with the rest of the clan. He didn’t go near the old wooden shed but went directly to his room in his father’s home, and slept dreamlessly.

* * *

He didn’t visit Madara on the fifth night, either.

* * *

On the sixth night, however, Hashirama went to go kneel before his father after dinner.

“Honorable father, this one would inquire if the clan has received a response from the Uchiha,” Hashirama said to the tatami mats.

“We have not,” said Butsuma.

And so Hashirama left.

* * *

On the seventh night, Hashirama saw Tobirama sequester himself in his room with a thick stack of scrolls. He saw Butsuma poring over a letter from a local daimyo. He saw the moon crest over the tops of the trees. He decided that he was going to see Madara.

The moonlight had a way of washing the colors out of everything, Hashirama noticed as he strode down the packed dirt path. It was bright tonight, the shadows of the swaying trees crisp as they cast over the earth.

Imori was standing guard outside the wooden shed.

“Imori-san!” Hashirama said brightly, waving.

“Hashirama-sama!” Imori whipped into a stiff bow. “I’m not supposed to let you in! Sir!”

Hashirama wilted. “Oh…” he said. “I’m sorry… I just thought you could use some help, but if you really don’t need me, that’s fine too…”

Imori wavered.

“I guess I’ll just… go, then…” Hashirama said, shuffling his feet. “… since you don’t want me here… I’d probably just get in your way, anyway…”

“That’s not it at all, Hashirama-sama!”

“No, no, it’s fine… I understand…”

“I – I just realized I have something I need to do,” Imori stammered. He was blinking back tears. “Hashirama-sama, can I impose on you to take my place for a moment! Sir!”

Hashirama beamed.

The minute Imori’s back disappeared around the bend, Hashirama deactivated the wards with a wave and slipped inside the shed.

Madara was leaning against the far wall. He was still wearing the same dark gray kimono he had on the day he’d surrendered. His hair was looking bushier than ever. Hashirama’s heart thudded traitorously in his chest.

“What was _that_?” Madara drawled.

Hashirama stepped carefully around a full bowl of stew that was sitting just inside the door. “What was what?” he asked guilelessly.

“That poor boy,” Madara mused. “You really are a little manipulative, aren’t you, Hashirama?”

“No idea what you’re talking about,” Hashirama said blithely. “Why didn’t you eat? Dinner was hours ago.”

“Not really hungry,” Madara said. “Being locked in a shed all week doesn’t expend that much energy, you know.”

Hashirama knelt down in front of him, resting one arm across his knee. “Sorry I couldn’t come see you sooner,” he said.

“You don’t have to be sorry,” Madara said. His head was tilted back towards the ceiling, but he watched Hashirama through dark eyelashes. “I heard what happened.” He paused.

“If you tell me Tobirama was right, I’m going to dump your stew on you.”

“What happened to treating your hostages well, Hashirama?”

“This is going to change,” Hashirama said firmly. “I’m getting tired of this. I don’t want to fight you, and I don’t want to have to sneak my way in here to visit you, either.”

Madara rolled his eyes. “Have you tried asking Butsuma nicely?” he said. “’Pretty please, honorable father, let’s pretend he _isn’t_ a hated enemy and let him wander around in our camp! I _promise_ he’ll behave!’”

“Don’t be cruel, Madara.”

“Cruel? _Cruel_?” Madara lunged into a sitting position, leaning forward into Hashirama’s face. “That wasn’t cruel. Cruel is inflicting _this_ on me. I want to die, not have playdates with you, Hashirama. _I do not want to see you_.”

“Why?” Hashirama asked.

Madara let out an agonized groan and sat back, pulling at his hair. “Why,” he muttered. “Why did it have to be _you_ , of all people?”

“I could ask myself the same question,” Hashirama said. “Why couldn’t I have fallen in love with someone in my own clan? It would’ve made everything a lot easier –”

“ _Love_?” Madara interrupted. He looked furious. “What, you’re saying you _love_ me now?”

Hashirama stared at him. Slowly, clearly, so there would be absolutely no confusion, he said, “Obviously?”

Madara looked like he wanted to strangle him. “You can’t just _say_ that!” he snarled.

“Why not?”

“Because – I don’t know how to explain this to you _any clearer –_ because I am your _hostage._ From an _enemy clan_ –”

It was Hashirama who cut him off, this time. “Do you think I forgot that?” He asked, tilting his head. “Do you think I don’t _know_ that? Butsuma, Tobirama, you, yourself… you all seem to think I’m really, honestly stupid.” Hashirama’s arm slid off his knee as he leaned forward. “I know you’re an Uchiha. I know our families are at war. But I also know _you_. You have a kind heart. You care deeply for those around you. Everything you do, you do to protect them – I get it, Madara. You want peace, like me. You want to make a world where kids don’t go to sleep holding shuriken under the blankets.”

Madara was sitting very, very still, black eyes tracking him like a hawk.

Hashirama put a hand on his shoulder, drawing closer, the words falling from his mouth in a tangled rush. “I want to make that world a reality, Madara. I want to make it real, with _you_ , and live there with _you_. I want to see you grow old and yell at children from the _engawa_ as we watch the sun go down. I know –”

“Pretty words,” Madara said.

“I love you,” Hashirama insisted. “I’ve loved you since we were _children_ , before I even knew what love _was_.”

Madara’s eyes were round and dark. His lips were moving, Hashirama noticed. He had to force himself to listen to the words.

“It’s a shame,” Madara was saying, “That I don’t feel the same.”

* * *

Time moved differently after that night. When Hashirama left the small shed, he barely noticed Imori on his way back to his room. He didn’t remember pulling off his haori, or his hakama, or falling asleep on his futon. The next morning passed in a blur. He completed his patrols on autopilot, responding mechanically to any questions, and smiling vacantly when needed. He ate his meals with his family. He went through the motions of practicing katas.

Hashirama spent four days like this.

Then, on the fifth day, things went wrong.

* * *

They had been on patrol. Hashirama lagged behind Seisa, who was following Toka as they flew through the tree branches.

The Uchiha had been silent since Tobirama had sent them the message.

A dark blur slammed into Toka at full speed. Something shot up from beneath Seisa like a snake and wrenched her off of the branch.

 _“GO!_ ” shouted a voice – it was close, too close – Hashirama’s hands flew through the signs for a barrier, but before he could complete the last motion a small, pale hand closed around one of his wrists.

Kunai thudded into the wood around them. The person holding him made a complicated motion with their free hand, and yelled, “ _Shimare!_ ” It was a woman’s voice.

Thick black lines spread from her hand on Hashirama’s wrist like lightning, spiraling up his arm before he could blink. One minute he was wrestling free from the woman’s vice-like grip, and in the next he was plummeting through the trees, completely paralyzed.

“ _Catch him –_ don’t let him –” were the last words Hashirama heard before his head hit the ground.


	4. A Break

“Will it hold?”

“Yes.”

“It looks… thin.”

“It’s supposed to look thin, it’s a seal. That’s how they look. It’ll hold, trust me.”

* * *

Hashirama’s throat was dry. He tried to lift his head and groaned as a sharp spike of pain lanced through his neck.

“He’s waking up.”

Someone grabbed his chin and roughly turned him to face upwards. Hashirama saw two bright red circles.

* * *

“… getting impatient.”

“He’ll just have to wait. We know he’s unharmed, but…”

“… answered…”

“… with the _mokuton_? Of course…”

* * *

Hashirama saw bright red circles, and then velvety blackness.

* * *

When Hashirama finally came to, he was completely lost. He was sitting, propped up against a wooden beam in the middle of a stone room – a basement, somewhere? The air was cold. His tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth. Dried spit crusted the side of his face. His arms were tied behind him, looping around the coarse wood. He instinctively reached out with his chakra – nothing. The wood stayed dead and immobile. Hashirama fought down the instinctive panic – his _mokuton_ wasn’t working.

He cleared his throat and lifted his head, squinting in the low light. It was definitely a basement, or some kind of underground shrine. There was an archway leading to an ascending staircase at the far end of the room.

A young man came down the last few steps, slurping noodles out of a bowl as he went. He saw Hashirama was awake and stopped dead, chopsticks raised halfway to his mouth.

Black hair, pale skin. Dark clothes. There was pretty much no way this wasn’t an Uchiha.

“Hello,” said Hashirama calmly. His voice was hoarse.

“Hi,” said the man. He set the bowl and the chopsticks delicately on the floor and came over to kneel in front of Hashirama. “How are you feeling?”

Hashirama blinked. “Sore,” he said.

“Ah, sorry about that.” The young man grimaced briefly. “Can you use your _mokuton_ like this?”

“I don’t know,” Hashirama lied.

The young man cocked his head. “You’d need your arms, huh?”

“Probably.”

“Yeah. Our bad.” A pause. “Sorry about this, too.”

“Sorry about wha –” Before Hashirama could finish the sentence, the young man’s eyes flashed violent crimson and Hashirama again lost consciousness.

* * *

_Crack._

Hashirama had not been awake to hear the thundering roar of _katon_ being unleashed overhead. He was not awake to feel his ears pop in the sudden rush of pressure as something massive appeared on the surface. He was also not awake to see the seals hidden in his clothing flare brightly, as if in proximity to a great source of power. He didn’t even wake up when a giant glowing blue hand ripped the ceiling off of the shrine like it was made of paper.

Hashirama did wake up, very briefly, when a warm hand ran through his hair, as if checking for injuries. But he wouldn’t really remember what he saw in those brief seconds of consciousness, anyway.


	5. A Renegotiation

Hashirama awoke in bits and pieces. First to come were his limbs, which _ached_. His nerves felt raw, like he’d been scraped along coarse rocks. The second thing to come to him was his sense of taste, which was, in a word, _bad_. His mouth somehow tasted both like acid and dirt, and he wrinkled his nose in distaste, which brought his attention to the third thing – he had a _splitting_ headache. Hashirama groaned.

“Are you awake?” asked a voice.

Hashirama froze. He didn’t open his eyes.

“Hashirama, you have to look at me.” The voice was closer now. It sounded vaguely familiar. “I need to see your eyes. Look at me, Hashirama.”

Hashirama reluctantly let his eyelids open a crack. The light was blinding. “Ow,” he said, screwing them back shut.

There were warm hands on his face, angling his jaw to the side. “Try again,” said the voice.

Hashirama tried to oblige. The light was dimmer now, blocked by an unruly mane of black hair.

“ _Madara?_ ” he asked in a rasping voice.

“Hashirama, for fuck’s sake,” Madara said irritably.

Hashirama felt one of the hands leave his face and fingers begin to pry apart his right eyelid. Animalistic terror kicked in, and Hashirama thrashed in Madara’s grip, struggling to get away. He didn’t get very far. A heavy weight dropped on his chest, pinning his arms to his sides and forcing out a breathless, “ _Oof_ ,” from Hashirama’s lips.

“Stay _still_ and let me see your _eyes_ ,” Madara snapped.

Hashirama opened his eyes. His mind still felt like it was being sawn in half. He could see Madara straddling his chest, both hands holding Hashirama’s head in place. Madara’s face was mere inches from his own, his dark black eyes flicking back and forth between Hashirama’s.

A long, tense minute passed.

“You’ll be fine,” Madara sighed, releasing his face and leaning back. “It looks like they only put you to sleep. Thank Indra.”

“Madara,” Hashirama said. He felt like he was talking through a mouthful of cotton. “What’s happening? Where are we?”

“The woods,” Madara answered. He rolled off of Hashirama’s chest and sat with a _thud_ next to him. “What do you remember?”

Hashirama’s headache was beginning to lessen. He propped himself up on trembling elbows and slowly began to get a sense of his surroundings.

They were, indeed, in the woods. Thick trucks towered overhead, forming a dense green canopy. Hashirama instinctively reached out with his chakra and let out a sigh of relief as he felt the low _thrum_ of the wood around him. Madara was sitting on a gnarled root beside him, watching him with an unreadable expression.

“I remember…” Hashirama began hoarsely. “… we were on patrol.”

“With Toka and Seisa. Yes.”

“You know their names?”

“Yes. Keep going. You were on patrol.”

“There was some kind of ambush.” Hashirama squinted. “They were there one minute, and in the next they were both just… gone.”

Madara cocked his head but didn’t seem surprised.

“The next thing I remember is a… woman. Some kind of seal, I think? Then everything went black.” Hashirama shook his head.

“Well,” Madara said. “That matches with the report, more or less.” He stretched. “You were ambushed by my clan on a patrol.” His mouth twisted bitterly. “It seems my family has allied itself with the Uzumaki. You were caught in one of their seals.”

“How did we get here?” Hashirama asked, bewildered. “Did Butsuma trade you for me?”

Madara actually laughed at this. “You think Senju Butsuma trusts Uchiha Tajima enough to exchange hostages?” He asked incredulously. “Of course not, Hashirama. Your honorable father was going to try to try to threaten the Uchiha into giving you up. It was never going to work.”

“So how am I free?”

“I broke out of the shed with help from your younger brother and came and got you.”

“I – you worked with _Tobirama_?”

“’Worked with’ is a stretch. He didn’t reactivate the largest seal on the shed. I broke through the rest.”

Hashirama blinked stupidly at him. “I remember a… blue giant?” It sounded a lot dumber when he said it out loud.

Madara started laughing at him again. “Ah,” he said, covering his eyes. “You never did see me use that in battle, did you? Susano’o.”

“Susano’o?”

Madara didn’t answer. His hand slid down to his chin, and he rested his jaw on his fist as he looked at Hashirama with bottomless black eyes.

“Yes, Susano’o. One last gift from my little brother.” There was a long pause. “You know,” Madara continued, suddenly. “I went to the Senju clan to be put out of my misery… only to be put in a situation that was arguably worse... Then you, my supposed warden, get taken by my own clan. What could I do? _Not_ come to your aid?” Madara looked like he was going to laugh again, but the smile ghosting his lips quickly faded to something closer to horror. “I used Susano’o against my own kin,” he said.

Hashirama pulled himself into a sitting position. Madara was staring off into the middle distance hollowly. It was like he’d forgotten Hashirama was there entirely.

“I think,” he continued. “I was so determined that you be the one to kill me… that I couldn’t allow anyone else to kill you first. If I had lost both Izuna _and_ you…” He trailed off.

“I don’t think your clan intended to kill me,” Hashirama said. “One of them apologized, I think.”

“They would have killed you,” Madara said flatly. “The Uchiha clan never keeps hostages for longer than a week. They’re too costly to maintain. We’ve been over this.” He finally met Hashirama’s eyes again. “You had no idea where you were. Between the Uzumaki bindings and the sharingan, they could’ve killed you with a rock.”

Hashirama was silent.

“They’ll never forgive me for this,” Madara said, looking away. “I know I killed at least a few of them, getting to you. Susano’o is not built for mercy.”

“Madara…”

“What could I do?” Madara demanded, whirling back to him. “What could I have done? I want you to kill me – it _has_ to be you. I’ll never be satisfied otherwise. How could I let you die first?” He made a sound of frustration and buried his face in his hands. “If there had been any hope of convincing Tajima to let you go – but of course, there wasn’t! Tajima’s tenacious with a fault, and you’re too powerful of a bargaining chip to waste. If he couldn’t extract value from your life, then he’d remove a threat with your death. There was no _choice_ , Hashirama.”

Slowly, carefully – as if he was approaching a wounded animal – Hashirama leaned over and put a hand on Madara’s elbow. “Thank you,” he said quietly.

“Do not thank me for this,” Madara said. “I burn my bridges out of self-interest.” He laughed hollowly. “Do you remember how you wanted us to make an alliance? This is exactly why that could never work. I’m too selfish for diplomacy.”

“I’d rather you be selfish,” Hashirama said. “One of us has to be.”

“Do you even hear yourself? What does that even mean?” Madara wondered. He let out a long sigh between his teeth and delicately lifted Hashirama’s hand from where it rested on his arm. “Can you stand?”

Hashirama blinked. “I think so?”

“Good. I’m returning you to your father.”

“Butsuma?” Hashirama asked blankly.

“Do you have any _other_ fathers?” Madara said acerbically, moving to stand up.

“No, it’s just… what are you going to do?”

This made Madara pause. He looked down at Hashirama. “Will you let me leave?”

“Where will you go? Back to your clan?”

Madara turned away, expression sour.

Hashirama let the silence linger for a long moment, then said, “I won’t stop you from leaving. But after this, I know my family would let you stay.”

Madara dismissively shook his head Hashirama slowly got to his feet. “Why are we even discussing this?” he said. “You are going to kill me. What does it matter where I stay in the meantime?” Hashirama opened his mouth to protest, but Madara barreled over him, continuing. “If you’re standing, we should get going. There’s a lot of ground to cover, and by now my clan might have recovered enough to follow us.”

* * *

There was pandemonium at the Senju encampment.

By the time the two of them had reached the borders of the camp, Hashirama was leaning so heavily on Madara he was practically being carried. Whatever the Uchiha had done to his mind during his interment kept returning in waves – he periodically had to stop and sit with his eyes covered until the piercing pain in his head subsided. Every time he did so, Madara stopped with him, and waited, one hand on Hashirama’s back, until he was able to go again.

Someone had already raised the alarm as they staggered through the main gate. Hashirama was pulled off of Madara’s shoulder and ushered into a small house. His clansmen didn’t seem sure what to do with Madara, who stood awkwardly amidst the milling crowd, arms held stiffly at his sides. People were shouting all around them – someone else called for Butsuma. Kotoe, Hashirama’s second cousin, trained in medical ninjutsu, was already waiting for him inside the house. She had sleek black hair that was beginning to gray at the temples; she wore a layered cotton kimono. She seemed grimly unsurprised to see the assembled crowd gathered at her door.

The room they pushed him into was a cross between a medical station and a parlor. Hashirama was corralled onto a cleared countertop and stripped of his kimono. The crowd pushed in through the door behind him, heads craning to catch a glimpse. His armor was long gone, as were his weapons. He was dehydrated, Kotoe announced briskly. After a barrage of questions, observations, and _poking_ , she proclaimed him malnourished, as well.

“How long have I been gone?” Hashirama asked blankly.

“Little over one week,” Kotoe said crisply, rotating his arm. “Saya, please go get a bowl of broth from Yuma. She should still have some from dinner last night.” A young girl with auburn hair ran out of the room. “You’re probably feeling dizzy, not to mention hungry. Do you remember if they fed you anything?”

“I don’t remember much at all,” Hashirama said.

“You wouldn’t,” said Madara’s voice. He entered the room as Saya left. Even as crowded as it was, a bubble formed around him as he spoke, people pushing back against the walls to clear a space. “They kept you alive longer than they would most hostages, but they wouldn’t have fed you anything. They probably gave you water.”

The room was very quiet. Kotoe continued her examination in silence.

“Excuse me,” said a small voice. Madara looked down, then shuffled a few steps to the left. Saya carried the bowl of broth over her head as she made her way to the front of the room.

“Thank you, Saya. Just set it there,” Kotoe said, gesturing to a nearby table. She took a step back from Hashirama and let out a long breath through her nose. “Well,” she said, resting her hands on her hips. “Given the circumstances, a little dehydration and malnourishment is definitely a best-case scenario, I think.”

“Then he’s not injured?” called a woman from the back of the room.

“I’m not injured!” Hashirama said.

“Someone go tell Butsuma his eldest will live another day,” Kotoe said. “Now, all of you – get _out_ of my house.”

Hashirama drank the first bowl of broth greedily and would have downed the second with equal enthusiasm but for Kotoe’s stern glare. As the crowd filtered back outside, Madara stepped forward, and in the politest tone Hashirama had ever heard him use, said, “Excuse me.”

Kotoe, who had been straightening decorations knocked askew by the crowd, shot him a flat stare and didn’t respond.

“May I borrow some bandages?” Madara said. “Or just ointment, if you have any to spare.”

“Are you injured?” Kotoe said.

“I wouldn’t trouble you over it, I’d just rather not use my kimono to bind it if I could avoid it.”

“Where are you injured?” Kotoe said, turning to face him fully.

Madara grimaced slightly. “Never mind,” he said.

Kotoe walked over to the door of the hut and locked it. “Where are you injured?” she repeated, forcefully.

Hashirama slurped his broth loudly.

“… My right shoulder blade,” Madara said finally.

“Strip,” Kotoe said, folding her arms. Madara moved to comply, but the dark gray kimono seemed to be stuck to his back. Kotoe peered at it. “Why did you let it dry?” she said exasperatedly. “Move, sit. I’ll go get water. Do _not_ leave. Hashirama, don’t let him leave.”

“Yes ma’am,” Hashirama said, saluting her with his broth.

Once Kotoe was gone, there was a tense, trembling silence.

Hashirama opened his mouth.

“Don’t say it,” Madara said, preempting him.

“Don’t say what?” Hashirama pouted.

“Whatever grand declaration you’re about to make. Save it. I don’t want to hear it.”

“I wasn’t going to make a grand declaration!”

“Yes, you were. Your face does this _thing_ when you’re about to say something stupid.”

Hashirama swallowed his retort and drank some broth. His eyes slid back over to Madara. “When did you get injured?”

Madara scratched his cheek and looked at the door. “When I was getting you.”

“Why didn’t you say anything?”

“Bigger things to worry about.” Madara paused. “Also, I forgot.”

Hashirama snorted. At that moment, Kotoe re-entered, a wide wooden bowl held between her hands.

“Kotoe-san,” Hashirama said. “May I leave? I want to go find my father.”

“Have you finished the broth?” Kotoe said.

“I have!”

“Then go. Take the bowl with you. _You_ stay put,” she directed at Madara, who had begun to rise as well.

Madara shot him a look of barely disguised panic as he left. Hashirama grinned back sunnily as the door swung shut behind him.


	6. A Misunderstanding

Yatagarasu was sitting on a low-hanging tree branch near the clan leader’s house. Hashirama stopped in his tracks and bowed to him. The bird cocked its head in response.

“Are you bringing news from the Uchiha?” Hashirama asked. “I’m not sure what good it’ll do at this point, unfortunately.”

“I am bringing a message, yes,” Yatagarasu responded. He preened his chest as he spoke. “They are not happy with your clan, little thing.”

“I imagine not,” Hashirama said. “I’m going to see my father now. Would you like a ride?” He offered his arm. Yatagarasu flapped down and clung to his jacket sleeve with sharp talons.

Butsuma’s study was a sparse room, with minimal decoration. A long, flat table dominated the center of it, laden heavily with tangles of books, scrolls, and loose paper. Butsuma sat with his back to the far wall, reading the dense writing on a long scroll in the amber afternoon light. He set it to the side as Hashirama entered.

“Welcome back, Hashirama. I heard you managed to escape uninjured. We were all very fortunate.” Butsuma’s words were stilted and formal. Hashirama felt a little stung by it, but followed suit, bowing respectfully as he crossed the threshold. Butsuma nodded his head at the three-legged bird on Hashirama’s arm. “Yatagarasu.”

“Senju Butsuma,” Yatagarasu said. “Do you want the long version or the short version?”

“I have time. Let’s hear what the Uchiha have to say.”

“Very well.” Yatagarasu took off in a flurry of feathers and landed on the table, thin claws scratching the enamel. Hashirama followed and took a seat in front of the desk. “You should know,” the bird said. “That Uchiha Tajima never actually gave me a response to your demands. As such, I decided to just relay what seemed important from his last gathering.” He opened his beak wide, and Uchiha Tajima’s voice echoed out.

“I have been laboring under a delusion, it seems,” the voice said. “I was under the impression that my son had simply had a moment of unforgivable weakness, letting himself be captured in such a way. But now I know better.”

There was a thump at the door. Tobirama’s white hair poked in through the crack. Butsuma gestured him in without looking away from the crow.

“Judging by the events of the past few days,” Tajima’s voice rang out. “It seems my son has decided to betray his family and clan, and defect to the Senju.”

Butsuma’s eyebrows inched higher on his head. Tobirama came to sit next to Hashirama, one hand clasping his shoulder as he did so.

“Their insulting demands for capitulation now become even more injurious in hindsight,” Tajima’s voice was cold with anger. “We will answer them in the manner they deserve. The Senju clan has come even more brazen than before, and this demands redress. I will give you all a week to prepare.” Yatagarasu’s beak shut with a _clack_. He ruffled his tail feathers. “That was when someone started throwing rocks at me,” he said, back in his abnormally deep voice. “So that’s all I have for you.”

“Thank you,” Butsuma said. Yatagarasu disappeared in a cloud of thick smoke. Butsuma waved it away, clearly deep in thought.

“Hashirama,” Tobirama said. “It’s good to see you’re alive.”

Hashirama leaned over and hugged his brother. “It’s good to be home!”

“It is good to see you, Hashirama,” Butsuma said, leaning on the desk. “Yatagarasu’s message just now cleared up a few things.”

“It sounds like the Uchiha aren’t pleased,” Hashirama said.

“No, they’re not. Which is a very good thing for our hostage,” Butsuma said.

A crease appeared between Hashirama’s brows. “What do you mean?”

“There was a possibility,” Tobirama said. “That your abduction – and subsequent rescue – were staged, to allow Uchiha Madara to gain our trust.”

Hashirama boggled. “What? How would that even work? He originally came to us asking to be _killed_. What if we actually had killed him? There’s no way a plan would hinge on an opening like that.”

“Given who is involved, Hashirama, the chance of him dying was slim in the first place,” Butsuma said flatly. Before Hashirama could begin to unravel that statement, he continued, “The fact that he went against his own clan in such a way, just to bring you home, is… unexpected. Even if this was a ploy, we have heard reports that significant damage was dealt to the Uchiha clan in the extraction.”

“It’s entirely expected,” Hashirama said. Tobirama elbowed him in the side.

Butsuma looked tired. “I’m beginning to see that,” he said. He ran a hand down his face. “Uchiha Madara burned his ties with his old clan to save your life,” he said, eyes drifting up to the ceiling. “It hardly seems fair to lock him back into the woodshed after that.” His eyes dropped sharply back down to Tobirama. “Not that he stayed there in the first place.”

Tobirama’s mask of indifference didn’t waver.

“So, what does this mean, father?” Hashirama asked.

Butsuma sighed. “Well, firstly, and most importantly, it means the Uchiha are going to attack us. Uchiha Tajima does not weather insults, none the less when he thinks we’ve stolen his last son from him.” There was a sardonic twist to his mouth.

“Honorable father, I have a suggestion,” Tobirama said.

“Loyal son, I am beginning to grow weary of your suggestions, as they tend to be more trouble than they’re worth,” Butsuma said. “But what is it?”

“Uchiha Madara is now functionally clan-less, isn’t he?” Tobirama asked.

“It’s looking that way.”

“Would it not be advantageous to bring him into the Senju clan?” Tobirama asked.

The room went dead silent. Butsuma looked at Tobirama, who met his eyes steadily. He looked at Hashirama, who was focusing very intently on the calligraphy scroll on the far wall. He put his forehead in his hand and said, “What is your reasoning, Tobirama?”

“He’s a prodigy,” Tobirama said immediately. “His powers on the battlefield are unmatched by any save Hashirama himself. And he has shown a new power when he rescued Hashirama – a blue giant that leaves him impervious to damage.”

“Susano’o,” Hashirama supplied helpfully.

“We don’t know how strong he could become in time. It would be wise for the clan to take advantage of what affection he bears us, and bring him into the fold now, or risk facing him as a powerful adversary later on.”

“’What affection he bears us,’ Tobirama?”

“Honorable father, in the interest of propriety, it should suffice to say that he turned on his own kin and burned down a forest to save your eldest son. Obviously, there must be some kind of affection we can exploit there.”

“What do you think of this, Hashirama?” Butsuma’s gaze shifted to him. “Although, I think I could guess your answer.”

“Exploit was a good word,” Hashirama said. “Tobirama is correct, of course. Madara is strong, and it would be good to have him on our side. Although were we to offer him kinship, I would suggest we avoid emphasizing the ‘affection’ side of things. Madara does not like to be reminded that he is capable of bearing affection for anything.” He hesitated. “And, ah… it might be best that someone other than me be the one to make the offer, in the end.”

Tobirama stared at him. “What did you _do_ , anija?”

“Whatever it was, I don’t need to hear it,” Butsuma said. “Tobirama. You will begin the preparations – we have reason to believe we will be attacked within a week, and our shinobi will need to be ready, as will our noncombatants. Hashirama…” Butsuma stalled, looking at him blankly. “… help your brother.” He shook his head and waved them off. “Go. You’re dismissed. I will consider the matter of Uchiha Madara.”

* * *

Hashirama wanted to see Madara, but that was desire was quickly squashed when faced with the daunting task of mobilizing the Senju clan to face an attack.

The first task to be done was to consolidate and take stock. How many shinobi were ready to fight? How many could be made ready in a week’s time? How were their weapons, their armor? Who would make the summoning scrolls to be consumed on the battlefield? Who would craft the bombs? Where will they store the food? Who handles the rations? Where will the children be kept, until they, too, were inevitably dragged into the fighting?

The second task to be done was to coordinate the defense. Where would the Senju make a stand? What grounds would they be willing to cede, what ground would they defend to their last breath? Where do they set the traps? In which bushes will they string razor wire? In which trees do they hand explosive tags? What of the buildings of their encampment? What will be done if the Uchiha breach the walls of their forts? Where will they dig the pits for the bodies?

In normal times – as normal as they had ever been – there would be a third step. This would be to coordinate their attacks with their allies, to find out which clans were nearby, who would support them, who would aid their enemies. But, this time, the Uchiha were attacking within a week. Evidence had come from their scouts to corroborate Madara’s initial report – the Uchiha had indeed allied themselves with the Uzumaki clan, breaking one of the oldest friendships the Senju had known. The Hagoromo clan was not a friend of theirs, and the Inuzuka clan was too far west and too impartial to be of any aid within the next week.

The anticipation to an outbreak of war was never a joyous time, but during that week leading up to Tajima’s deadline, the air hung low in the Senju encampment.

Hashirama took control of the defenses. He coordinated with the shinobi on patrol to scout the area, drew up plans, and laid markers. The _mokuton_ made erecting buildings and setting traps much easier, after all. Five days passed quickly. He didn’t see Madara at all as he rushed from encampment to the prospective battlefield and back.

* * *

Two days before Tajima’s deadline, a runner from the Uzumaki clan presented himself to a patrol. He was brought immediately to Butsuma, who was coordinating weapons storage with Tobirama on the field.

The sky was gray overhead, and the Uzumaki envoy was forced to his knees before Butsuma. It was an uncomfortably familiar scene.

“What words could the Uzumaki clan have for us now?” Butsuma said coldly. He marked something off of a list and handed it to an attendant before scowling down at the kneeling shinobi before him.

“An apology,” The Uzumaki said.

Furtive looks were exchanged in the gathered crowd. This was unexpected.

“An apology,” Butsuma repeated. Tobirama, beside him, cocked his head and folded his arms.

“Our clan has heard the reports of the attack made on the Uchiha encampment six days ago,” the envoy said. “Our honorable leaders have determined that our initial alliance with the Uchiha was founded on a false premise. Initially, we felt it imperative to assist the Uchiha in seeking reparations for the injury done to them by the Senju clan. We were under the impression you had forcibly captured Uchiha Madara – a portent of a three-legged bird had led us to believe this was so. As you know, the capture of a clan leader’s only living son goes against the teachings of Uzumaki Mako.”

Butsuma fought down the urge to rub his temples. _Yatagarasu._ Of course. Of course, Tobirama’s suggestion would have violated some obscure tradition somewhere. Why was he cursed with such troublesome sons?

“But after witnessing the lengths that same Uchiha Madara went to return your honorable son to you…” The Uzumaki envoy trailed off, shrugging helplessly. “Our leaders would humbly ask forgiveness of the Senju clan for meddling in affairs that are not our own. Clearly, the boy defected of his own will, and our clan has no argument with voluntary secessions.”

The whispers were immediate.

“ _– defected – “_

 _“– he’s saying Madara defected to us?_ –”

_“– doesn’t that make him –”_

Butsuma cleared his throat loudly. “And the alliance with the Uchiha?”

“The Uzumaki have withdrawn from the field. We hope to convey our deepest apologies, and our leadership wishes to reaffirm the longstanding friendship between –”

“That’s enough,” Butsuma said. “If this is the extent of your business here, you may return to your clan. No Senju were harmed in this… misunderstanding, so we will not seek further reparations from the Uzumaki.”

The envoy stood and bowed low, before disappearing in a cloud of smoke. The surrounding cloud immediately broke into chatter.

“Uchiha Madara –”

“– the Uzumaki aren’t –”

“– Uchiha Madara defected to _us_? –”

Tobirama silently passed another list of weapon caches to Butsuma. “I would humbly beg forgiveness, honorable father, for my part in this misunderstanding,” he said quietly. Tobirama’s face was completely blank, but somehow, he still didn’t sound the slightest bit remorseful. “I take it you have raised my earlier suggestion with Uchiha Madara?”

Butsuma accepted the scroll and busied himself in scanning it thoroughly. He had not.

Tobirama pressed his lips together and nodded briefly to himself.

The whispers in the crowd grew into rumors, mixing with the rumors already flying through the camp – now, not only had Uchiha Madara betrayed the Uchiha clan for Hashirama’s sake, but he had _joined_ the Senju clan as well! Uchiha Madara wasn’t their hostage, but a new recruit! The mood of the camp had, overnight, lightened considerably. The sheer absurdity of the situation had caught the clan off guard – one of their oldest enemies had apparently been welcomed by Butsuma as one of their own! Who would’ve guessed?

No one was more surprised at the news than Uchiha Madara himself.


	7. A Strategy

The clan expected the Uchiha to attack tomorrow. The defenses were in place; the patrols were stationed; the children had been corralled into a well-defended location, along with the sick and the elderly. It was the night before the clan went to meet the Uchiha on the field – either to rebuff their attack, or, if no attack was forthcoming, to strike in advance. Butsuma was holding a meeting, going over strategies one last time. He stood stooped over a broad table, flanked on either side by seasoned veterans of the clan. Hashirama stood opposite, listening intently.

Hashirama was to lead the attack, of course, cutting a path through any resistance with the _mokuton_. Given that the Uzumaki had withdrawn from the field, and Madara wouldn’t be there to fight him, they expected little resistance. Toka would lead strike teams to meet any groups that avoided Hashirama and prevent them from reaching the Senju encampment.

“What will Tobirama’s role be?” Hashirama asked suddenly. It occurred to him that in the midst of all the planning, his younger brother had stayed silent.

Butsuma paused, one hand hovering over the map stretched over the table. He frowned at the interruption, and said, “Tobirama will be leading a dedicated team on a certain mission during the initial attack.”

The gathered shinobi were staring at Hashirama. Had they already been briefed in this? Why hadn’t he been included? He blinked at the vague statement. “A ‘certain mission?’ Should I help? I can –”

“You have your role to play, Hashirama,” Butsuma said with finality. “He will not need your assistance in completing this task.”

Hashirama frowned.

“Excuse me,” said a tall man with a scar running across his face. “Butsuma-sama, I do have a question. Regarding our… newest addition to the clan. Do we expect him to join in this battle?”

“No,” Hashirama said before Butsuma could answer. Butsuma shot him a fierce look but didn’t contradict him.

The tall man raised his eyebrows. “’No?’” he said. “Respectfully, Hashirama-sama, this isn’t your decision to make. Uchiha Madara is a powerful asset, and we should use him accordingly. Butsuma-sama –”

“Honorable father,” Hashirama interjected. The tall man fumed across the room at being interrupted. “I do not contest that Uchiha Madara is a valuable asset. I would question the wisdom of attempting to force him onto the field against his former kin so quickly after his secession from that clan.”

“But he has already fought against them, has he not?” The speaker was a portly woman with slick brown hair. Hashirama tried to remember her name – Natsuki? Nanami? She looked at Hashirama pointedly. “We received reports that he not only fought against them, but did so with great speed and efficacy in his retrieval of _you_ , Hashirama-sama.”

“Unless Hashirama-sama has some reason to doubt the loyalty of this new clan member,” the tall man added.

_I will not fight anymore,_ Madara had said. Hashirama had already made him break that vow once. He didn’t want to do it again – not against his own family, and not so soon. They didn’t even need him on the battlefield, not with Hashirama there – he stared pleadingly at Butsuma from across the room, trying to convey his thoughts through force of will alone.

Butsuma stood up straight. “Eiji-san, Nanami-san –” _Ah, so that_ was _her name_ , Hashirama thought. “– You are, of course, correct. Uchiha Madara is a powerful warrior, and between himself and Hashirama, this mess would undoubtedly be resolved in a matter of hours.”

Hashirama’s heart sank.

“However,” Butsuma continued forcefully. “We do not conscript into fighting those who do not _wish_ to fight. Even the youngest of our shinobi who die on the field do so willingly, out of love for their family.” 

Hashirama had a great deal many things to say about the subjective _willingness_ of children to die in adults’ wars, but, for once in his life, held his tongue.

“It is not a question of loyalty, Eiji-san, but a question of time. If he stays with us, Uchiha Madara will someday fight for us, of this I have no doubt. But we will not test the loyalties of such a shinobi when they are still raw.”

“Do you think he would turn on us? Return to his kin?” Eiji demanded.

“Do you think Hashirama’s strength alone will be insufficient in the coming battle, Eiji-san?” Butsuma shot back. “Do you have reason to believe we will be so overrun that we will _need_ Uchiha Madara, even though we have _somehow_ managed without him until now?”

“It is not that we doubt Hashirama-sama’s strength,” Nanami said in a pacifying voice. “I would merely question the premise that his allegiance is as raw as you say, Butsuma-sama. As I have said, we already know this man is willing to shed blood on Hashirama-sama’s behalf – and even with a power as fierce as the _mokuton_ , we all know that a quicker end to the conflict means fewer casualties on our side.”

There was a knock on the door. Someone opened it, and there, in the shadows cast into the dark hallway, was Uchiha Madara himself. He stood in the doorway with his arms crossed, looking deeply unimpressed.

There was a tense silence in the room. Sure, he was on their side, now – but in this room of old shinobi, instincts and wounds both ran deep. Several hands slipped unobtrusively into knife pouches.

“Are all your clandestine meetings this loud, Senju Butsuma?” Madara asked. His voice carried across the room. There were several displeased looks exchanged at his lack of impropriety, but Madara ignored them all. He strode forward. “I could hear you _outside_. If you are all this concerned over my role in the coming battle, you should save yourselves the breath and come ask me personally.”

Hashirama couldn’t stop the smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. He was suddenly, keenly, aware of how much he had missed Madara in the rush of the past week.

“And?” Butsuma said. “What will you do? Tomorrow we will fight against the Uchiha clan.”

“I could kill you all here,” Madara said flatly. “And save both sides the trouble.”

There was a gentle rasp of a dozen knives being drawn out of sheathes.

“Watch your tongue, brat,” Butsuma said harshly.

“Madara,” Hashirama said. “I won’t ask you to fight for us. I know it’s –”

“You should!” cried a voice from the back. Hashirama couldn’t see who it was.

“He’s right,” Eiji said. He pointed at Madara. “You came to us, now it’s time to prove your loyalty. Defend your clan!”

“ _Prove my loyalty?!_ ” Madara asked. Red started to swirl into his eyes. “Do you think I came here to _join_ this clan? Do you think I give a _damn_ what –”

Hashirama’s hand slapped over his mouth. He dragged Madara backwards towards the door in the stunned silence, hurriedly shooting, “Honorable father, please forgive my sudden exit, I will be back soon –” over his shoulder as he went.

In the dark of the hallway, Madara came to his senses and ripped Hashirama’s hand away from his mouth.

“Why do you deliberately antagonize people like that?” Hashirama despaired quietly.

“Why have I been getting _congratulated on joining the Senju clan_ for the past four hours?” Madara hissed. He looked furious. “Hashirama, just because I cannot claim to be an Uchiha any more does _not_ mean I want to join _your_ fucking clan!”

“Wait, what?” Hashirama asked. “What did father say to you?”

“What do you mean, what did he say to me? I haven’t spoken to your _honorable father_ since the first day I _came_ here!”

“Butsuma was supposed to ask you if you wanted to join the clan,” Hashirama said. He felt the beginnings of a headache begin to blossom behind his eyes.

“He did not, and I do not,” Madara snapped. “I thought we had talked about this, Hashirama. Whatever it is you feel, _I don’t reciprocate._ ”

“This isn’t about that at all,” Hashirama said firmly, holding up a hand. “Not to mention, I don’t believe you –” Madara’s eyes blazed red again, oh, he was _pissed_ now, for sure, but Hashirama didn’t stop. “– but our offer was one of convenience. That’s it. It’s safer to live in this world with a clan. You’ll have an easier time convincing me to kill you if you’re by my side, right?”

Madara punched him. It caught Hashirama completely by surprise, and he staggered backwards, one hand reaching up to gingerly touch his jaw.

Madara knocked his hand aside and seized him by the straps on his armor. “Don’t try to manipulate _me_ , Hashirama,” he hissed, blazing red eyes staring straight into his own. Hashirama braced for another attack, or a genjutsu, or anything – but nothing came.

Madara’s eyes had flicked down to his lips, so quickly that Hashirama almost thought he imagined it.

“…What would you do,” Hashirama said quietly. “If I actually did fall in battle tomorrow?”

“You won’t.”

“I might,” Hashirama said. “Your brethren and their red eyes kept me down for a week straight, remember?” He considered resisting the urge to raise his hand and gently brush aside a lock of hair hanging in Madara’s face. He considered it, then did it anyway. Madara, shockingly, let him. “You said something about killing me with a rock, I think?”

“You stupid fucker,” Madara said. “That’s with twenty seals on you _and_ the sharingan. I had to break through all of them before you actually woke up.”

“All it would take is a second on the field, though. One lucky hit could end me for good. I won’t have you there to go easy on me.”

“You think I was going _easy_ on you?” Madara huffed out a laugh and released his hold on Hashirama’s breastplate. “Hashirama, I once saw you regrow an entire arm. I’m not even sure you _can_ die. Besides, weren’t you arguing against me fighting in there?”

“I was,” Hashirama said. He stepped closer. Madara didn’t back away. “But now that you’re here, I can only imagine – think of what it would be like to fight _together_ , Madara.”

Madara’s eyes faded back into bottomless black. Hashirama could drown himself in them.

“Hashirama,” Madara said. “Last time, I killed my brethren for you out of desperation. This… this is deliberate. It’s a different thing to _plan_ to slaughter my own kin. Don’t ask me to do this.”

He sounded tired. Hashirama took a step back. “I won’t,” he said. “I understand.”

“I will stay with the clan, though, I think.” Madara wasn’t looking at his face. His gaze was fixed somewhere near Hashirama’s right elbow. “You’re right, after all. There’s nowhere I could live that’s not by your side, by now.”

Hashirama sternly reminded himself that Madara didn’t mean that the way Hashirama wanted him to mean it. That didn’t stop his heart from leaping into his throat.

Madara retreated down the hallway, clearly having said his peace. Hashirama watched him go in silence, then carefully schooled his own face back into a mask of polite interest as he turned to re-enter the conference.

Butsuma raised his eyebrow as Hashirama returned, making his way through the clustered shinobi. “Well?” he asked. “Should we expect to be killed in our beds tonight, or will Uchiha Madara fight on our side tomorrow?”

Hashirama had completely forgotten Madara’s dramatic threat. He wanted to hit himself. “No,” he said. “He’s not – you’re all safe, don’t worry. Madara’s not going to kill anyone. Uh. Including the Uchiha.”

Butsuma looked deeply annoyed. “What exactly are you talking about, Hashirama?”

“He will stay behind with the sick and the elderly and serve as a rear guard,” Hashirama said, with much more confidence. It seemed true enough – Madara would probably defend them if the Uchiha did get to that point, right?

“Fine,” Butsuma said. Eiji opened his mouth. “This discussion is _over_ ,” Butsuma said firmly, leaning on the table. Eiji shut his mouth.

The discussion turned back to reviewing tactics for the upcoming battle. Hashirama, who would be acting alone tomorrow, didn’t really need to be there, and so excused himself soon after. He’d hoped to catch Madara before he’d gotten too far, but by the time Hashirama actually left the meeting the man was long gone.


	8. A Collision

The day of the battle dawned bright and clear. There was a thick anticipation in the air. No one liked the pain and blood of war, but there was a sort of harsh momentum in everyone’s steps as they took their positions on the border of the Senju-controlled forest. It was the same anticipation that preceded a tsunami, when the water receded from the shore, baring the silt and rocks to the sky above. It was the sense of bated breath that came before the wave hit.

What did the moments before a shinobi battle look like? They looked like a thousand eyes waiting in the shadows, sharp daggers sliding into sleeves, well-practiced hands going through the motions of seals one more time before the tide came in.

Uchiha Tajima made good on his word.

The only sign of their approaching enemy was the rustle of grass, the snapping of a twig. There were no lines drawn in the earth, no approaching phalanx marching in tandem. Just Hashirama, alone, standing before a wide grassy plain under a clear, cloudless sky. His hair whipped in the sudden wind as his eyes calmly tracked the small movements in the far trees.

“ _Katon: Goukyakuu no Jutsu!”_

The call rang out like thunder over the field. Hashirama could feel the heat even before the flames materialized, stinging his face and eyes.

The anticipation snapped, and the forest behind Hashirama burst into life. Shuriken flew through the air, smoke from the fires now spreading through the grass and from the summons on either side clouded over the clear sky. Hashirama could hear the _suiton_ jutsus from his clan mates as they cleared a path through the flames. Hashirama didn’t bother.

His hands flew through the sigils and the earth ruptured around him. Green – vibrant green, viridescent, deep and thick and lush – erupted from the ground, smothering the fire and clawing towards the sky.

Hashirama was incandescent; Hashirama was alight. He was present in every leaf and bough; he was in the roots shattering the stone under their feet. He didn’t even need to form sigils or call forth any jutsu – Hashirama breathed, and the world under him _moved_. Vines snagged at their feet, branches broke through bone and crushed limbs, roots coiled underfoot and opened gaping pits in the earth as the Uchiha clan advanced over the plain.

It went like this for some time. The Uchiha poured out of the opposite tree line, red fans and red eyes leaping through the flaming brush. The Senju met them head on, and where they met hundreds of shuriken whistled through the air. Blood rose like floodwaters as the battle churned.

There was a part of Hashirama that was on edge, even as he cut through swathes of the enemy. There was a part of him that was waiting for a flash of long black hair, spinning red eyes, a harsh, demanding voice – he was waiting for Madara to stop his advance, he realized. But Madara was not here to defend the Uchiha anymore.

It was this part of him, this corner of his mind that was already knocked off-kilter by the _ease_ with which he consumed the battlefield, that was the first to notice the wind. His hair hung still over his shoulders and down his back, even as he soared through the air.

The wind was gone.

“Toka!” Hashirama roared, spinning around. “Get everyone back!”

His cousin heard him, and the order passed through the tangle of the battlefield. The Senju shinobi fled the field, smoke bombs bursting behind them as they went. The Uchiha clan surged after them – but they weren’t the ones Hashirama was worried about.

It had been a long time since the Hagoromo clan had travelled this far south.

It happened exactly as Hashirama expected – the wind vanished, the air went still, as if holding its breath; then, in one split second, the wind came roaring back, a thousand times faster, cutting like knives across the wide plain. Hashirama slid down into the tangle of branches below, and even as sheltered as he was, it still sliced through any exposed skin like razors. Blood seeped from his hands, down his face – he was in the middle of the battlefield, so he was caught the full brunt of the blast. He hoped Toka had made it back to the tree line in time.

There was a brief lull, and Hashirama surged – tree trunks ripped out of the ground with frightening speed, tearing across the plain towards the gathered Hagoromo clan. Gathered, yes – Hashirama knew from past battles that a jutsu of that caliber required many of their clan to be in one place, and sure enough, Hashirama could feel the dull impact in the branches as they met flesh. New roots took hold, and Hashirama _twisted_ them, feeling the wood rip through armor, meat, and bone.

There was a noise above him. Hashirama looked up – and lunged out of the tangle of branches where he’d been hiding. In the next second, they were ablaze, the searing heat hitting Hashirama like a brick wall as he staggered aside. The Uchiha followed him, wakizashi bared, red eyes gleaming in the flames as they tracked him.

Hashirama unsheathed his sword and met the Uchiha’s fierce overhead strike. His feet were on solid ground, but his back was vulnerable, open to the ragged battlefield behind him. The Uchiha’s attacks were relentless, each blow of the wakizashi coming harder than the last.

Hashirama met them all. He wasn’t attacked from behind – the Uchiha must have also begun to retreat. He had no idea if there were any more Hagoromo on the field or not. Hashirama, to his own private horror, found himself growing… _bored_. He looked around the plain as he let the Uchiha press him backwards. It seemed like they were the only ones left.

“Hey,” he said suddenly, lowering his sword.

The Uchiha took the opportunity to drive their blade through his chest.

“Ow,” Hashirama said, and pulled it out.

The color drained from the Uchiha’s face.

“I think the battle’s over,” Hashirama said, handing them back the bloodstained wakizashi. They accepted it with trembling hands.

They stood there awkwardly for a second.

“I’m not going to kill you,” Hashirama said. He was starting to get tired of having to say that out loud.

The Uchiha wordlessly narrowed their red eyes and vanished in a cloud of smoke.

Hashirama sucked in a deep breath and rubbed his chest. Being stabbed _hurt._ The smaller wounds from the Hagoromo’s wind had already begun to heal, but a stab wound would take at least a day or more to close.

Hashirama stood still for a minute and silently absorbed the sight of the battlefield. It was over as quickly as it started. The grass was all but gone. Between the fires of the _katon_ and the flooded stretches of mud from the _suiton_ his clan had used to combat it, what was once a picturesque expanse of grass and wildflowers was now full of mud, ash, and corpses – save for the vast stretches of land where the ground was ravaged by the _mokuton_ , thick branches still twisting towards the sky.

Hashirama sat down on a root and frowned. The Uchiha he’d been fighting couldn’t have been more than sixteen. Why was he doing this? Why were either of their clans doing this? Because of Madara? He should’ve asked his attacker what they thought about this war.

They probably would’ve just stabbed him again.

Hashirama suddenly felt very tired. He didn’t want to fight the Uchiha. He didn’t want to fight the Hagoromo. He didn’t want to have to argue with his father or his brother. He didn’t want Madara not to love him back.

He needed to leave. Body counters from both clans would be back soon, and it wouldn’t do for them to find him moping around instead of tending to his duties as heir to the clan. Hashirama got to his feet, sent one long, lingering look at the opposite tree line, and vanished.


	9. A Pharmakon

Hashirama took a long, meandering path back to camp. He told himself it was to check on the explosive tags in the trees, and make sure all the traps were set for the coming evening. He knew there were people assigned to this task already, but he still felt like he had to take a minute before he went back into camp.

Hashirama felt… _weird_. Post battle fatigue? The fight had barely lasted the afternoon. Was he worried about the sudden appearance of the Hagoromo, who seemed to be helping the Uchiha? Hashirama considered it for a moment, then derisively cast the thought aside. He wasn’t worried about the Hagoromo. He wasn’t feeling… worry, either. Hashirama just felt _weird_.

It was late afternoon when he came back into camp. The newly erected walls stood untouched around the settlement. They’d all done good work this time. The process of consolidating and reinforcing the encampment had always been a bit messy in the past, but this time Hashirama had been able to summon the tree trunks for the houses and walls with relative ease, growing them straight and broad. Growing trees that were useful for building was very different than growing trees that ripped people apart.

Inside the walls was a state of controlled chaos. The buildings were all a little closer together than they were before, to better fit inside the walls, and a wide central area in the camp had been cleared for a medical tent.

Kotoe was standing beside one of the sick-beds, wrist-deep in someone’s torso, barking orders over her shoulder to a bustling swarm of apprentices. Hashirama spotted Imori among the wounded, holding a dense wad of cloth against his stomach. He started making his way towards him – his own healing powers aside, Hashirama wasn’t the most skilled at medical jutsus. Even so, he could probably help lighten Kotoe’s load a little.

Imori brightened considerably when he saw him approach. “Hashirama-sama!” he said, beaming. He moved as if he was going to try to get up.

Hashirama reached his bedside and firmly clasped his shoulder – partly in greeting, and partly to make sure he stayed down. “What happened to you, Imori?”

“I got stabbed,” Imori said, ruefully. “I gave as good as I got, though! Seisa was able to drag me away from the fighting before the Hagoromo’s wind hit, thankfully.”

“The Uchiha’s are a bit of a stabby clan, aren’t they?” Hashirama agreed. His wound had stopped bleeding almost an hour ago, but still throbbed painfully under his breast plate. With how busy Kotoe already was, Hashirama would just let it heal on its own.

“You were incredible out there, Hashirama-sama.” There were stars in Imori’s eyes. “I’ve never seen you use the _mokuton_ like that!”

“You’ve seen me fight before? How old are you?” Hashirama asked, bemused.

“Seventeen, Hashirama-sama!” The blushing was back.

Hashirama hid his frown and gestured to the blood seeping through the cloth pressed against Imori’s side. “May I?”

“… Hashirama-sama?”

“I can heal a little,” Hashirama said. “Let me see!”

Imori’s entire face went red. “I – uh, that’s – you’re –”

Hashirama waited patiently until Imori’s stutters died off, then gently peeled the cloth away himself. The wound oozed blood in steady pulses, seeping through Imori’s broken armor and down onto the cot.

“It doesn’t seem too bad!” Hashirama said encouragingly. He placed a palm flat against the source of the blood – gently, but Imori hissed in pain all the same – and slowly began infusing his chakra into the veins. The punctured meat, as if being gently coaxed into compliance, began to knit back together.

Imori was looking at Hashirama like he’d hung the sun in the sky.

“I’m afraid I can’t heal it all the way,” Hashirama said. “Better leave the fine details to Kotoe, unless you want a tree growing out of your side, haha. But this should stem the bleeding a little.”

“Hashirama!” Someone called from across the clearing. Hashirama looked and saw Keiko (second cousin on Tobirama’s mother’s side) waving at him vigorously. He said good-bye to Imori (who still looked vaguely dazzled and tried to get up again to bow as Hashirama left) and wove his way through the other sickbeds towards her.

“Long time no see, Keiko-san,” Hashirama said amicably.

“So formal,” Keiko said, teasingly. Her face grew serious almost immediately. “Hashirama, I wanted to ask if it was true, but…”

“If what’s true?”

“… the dog you have wandering around camp,” Keiko said.

Hashirama got a sinking feeling in his gut. “… Dog?” he asked.

“You know who I’m talking about,” Keiko said. She crossed her arms. “I don’t want to be harsh, Hashirama… I’m sure you have your reasons. Same for Butsuma-sama. It’s just… a little hard to stomach seeing him go free like this.” Her face was bitter. “I mean, he’s kind of responsible for all this fighting, isn’t he?”

Hashirama opened his mouth to object.

“You defend him too much,” Keiko said. “I heard Nanami-san talking after the war room last night. She said it’s disgraceful, how much power you let him hold over you.”

“He doesn’t hold any power over me!” Hashirama said, slightly offended.

“No? Is that why one of our greatest enemies is being given free rein in the camp right now?” Keiko said. Her eyes bored into Hashirama. “I’m not Butsuma-sama, and I’m lucky enough not to have lost any of my loved ones to that dog’s teeth, but… I really, really hope you’ve thought this through, Hashirama. Not everyone’s happy with the choices you’ve been making, recently.”

“Speaking of Butsuma,” Hashirama said, desperate to change the subject, “Where is my father? I’d like to give him my report on the battle.”

“He should be with the other elders,” Keiko said, pointing towards the main house. “They came back a while ago. I think they’re discussing the situation with the Hagoromo.”

“Great, thanks. Good to see you, Keiko-san!” He did not run. Hashirama walked at a completely reasonable pace away from Keiko’s accusing eyes towards his father’s house.

The hallways seemed taller and emptier than before. Hashirama followed the faint sound of voices down into Butsuma’s study. He rapped politely on the shoji screen door before entering.

There were more people in the room this time than there were last night. Hashirama recognized most of them – Nanami and Eiji, of course, and old Yuma, which was a surprise, as she usually avoided getting directly involved in the clan’s conflicts. There were more of the elders than Hashirama had anticipated, as well. Clearly, this meeting was meant for more than strategizing.

Butsuma presided behind his sprawling desk. He nodded at Hashirama as he entered the room. “You’re just in time,” he said. “We have reached a decision.”

Hashirama bowed. “What kind of decision?”

“Tomorrow, you and Uchiha Madara will eliminate the Hagoromo.”

This was somehow not the answer Hashirama had expected. “ _Eliminate_ them?” he asked before his brain could catch up to his mouth.

“Yes,” Eiji said. His flat, dark eyes glittered like river stones. “They’ve become weaker, and their attacks have become bolder. Their alliance with the Uchiha is the final insult.”

“It is an alliance, then?” Hashirama asked. He supposed it had been too much to hope that their intervention in the last battle had been mere coincidence.

“We have confirmation from several sources,” said a woman with long, black hair he didn’t recognize. “Envoys, letters. Gifts. They have chosen their boat.”

“They’ve grown from an irritation to a menace,” Butsuma said. “Like a wounded animal, lashing out at the world around it. You will take Uchiha Madara, and between the two of you, you will end this annoyance.” He stared piercingly at Hashirama, as if challenging him to object. “Unless he has a problem fighting _them_ , too?”

“There will be no problem,” Hashirama said. “I will speak to Madara tonight. We will leave by midmorning and return before nightfall.”

“Good,” Butsuma said.

“I have one question, though,” Hashirama said. “Won’t we battle the Uchiha tomorrow?”

“Of course,” Nanami confirmed softly, from the side. 

“Honorable father, am I not needed there?”

“An interesting change of tune from last night, Hashirama.” Butsuma’s voice was cold. “So eager to fight the Uchiha, now?”

“Honorable father, I would give my life to protect this clan,” Hashirama said. He felt a little confused. Yuma was looking at him with something disconcertingly close to pity.

“Of course, you would, Hashirama. The battle tomorrow will go on without you,” Butsuma said. He waved. “Go. We still have much to discuss among ourselves.”

Another dismissal. Another secret meeting. Hashirama crushed his hurt feelings and bowed low, backing out the open door.

The sun had begun to sink below the tops of the trees. Hashirama considered asking around the camp to find Madara, but after his discussion with Keiko, earlier, he didn’t feel like taking the risk. So, he wandered. He roamed all the places he knew Madara had been – Kotoe’s house, the wooden shed, the training ground. It took him almost an hour to find the aviary. Hashirama usually avoided it – he had bad childhood memories of angry old falcons, sharp talons, and scolding falconers. But Madara stood inside, holding the oldest and angriest falcon on a leather glove. One of his hands was gently brushing down the feathers on the bird’s chest. His expression was soft.

Hashirama almost didn’t go inside. He didn’t want to break this small moment of stillness. ‘Madara’ and ‘gentle’ had never occupied the same space in his head – words like ‘chaotic’ and ‘exhilarating’ were usually the ones to come to mind when his thoughts turned to the Uchiha. The _weird_ feeling from before grew stronger.

Madara’s eyes glanced over at the door, and in an instant, the gentleness was gone. “Hashirama,” he said. “You survived the battle after all, it seems.”

“I did,” Hashirama said, coming into the aviary fully and resting his shoulder against the door. He felt very tired.

Madara’s deep black eyes regarded him evenly for a moment. He sighed, looking away sharply. “What’s wrong.” It didn’t sound like a question.

“Huh?”

“What’s wrong, Hashirama? Tell me.”

“Nothing’s wrong,” Hashirama said.

“I’m going to tell this bird to eat your eyes,” Madara said.

“Would it?” Hashirama asked, eying the bird with suspicion.

“Tell me what’s wrong, Hashirama.”

Hashirama chewed the words in his mouth. “… My father.”

Madara didn’t say anything at first. His mouth tightened slightly at the corners. “… I can relate,” he said after a long minute. His hand came up again and resumed stroking the falcon, almost absentmindedly. “What’s happened? Has he made Tobirama his successor instead of you?”

Hashirama let out a hollow laugh. “I almost wish he had.” Tobirama would probably be a better clan leader than he would, anyway. He took a few steps closer to the bird – not daring to touch it just yet, but close enough to get a better look. “No, it’s nothing as dramatic as that. I just… sometimes I feel like… I’m…”

“A better weapon than a son?” Madara asked, quietly. There was a dark look in his eyes.

Hashirama looked at him, surprised.

“I told you, I can relate.” Madara went over to the low-lying table and lowered the falcon onto a perch. It ruffled its feathers in annoyance as he tied off the jesses with a practiced hand. “How did the battle go? Much better for your side than mine, I assume.”

Hashirama didn’t remind him that they were on the same side, now. There was no point. “More or less,” he said. “The Hagoromo were kind of an unpleasant surprise.”

“The Hagoromo?” Madara raised his eyebrows. He pulled the old leather glove off of his hand and hung it on a hook in the wall.

“They’ve allied with the Uchiha,” Hashirama said.

“Tajima really must be furious,” Madara said. There was an undercurrent of mirth in his voice that Hashirama didn’t expect. “To go so far as to bring them back down here… hmm.”

“Actually,” Hashirama said. “That’s what I came to talk to you about. Butsuma wants us to exterminate their clan tomorrow.”

“Hn,” Madara said, crossing his arms. “Fine.”

Hashirama blinked, taken aback. “… _Fine_?”

“I have no lost love for the Hagoromo,” Madara said. “Even though there’s scant chance the battle will kill me, and there’s even less of a chance it’ll kill you – meaning I won’t need to be there to protect you – it would still be nice to stretch my legs.” There was the smallest hesitation before he continued. “And I’ve been thinking about what you said.”

“What’s that?”

“You said to imagine what it would be like to fight together. Last night.”

Hashirama remembered. He remembered the breathless anticipation that had accompanied the thought, the swooping feeling in his stomach, like he had been standing on a high precipice. Hashirama thought he could hear a hint of that same heady rush in Madara’s voice as he said, “I have imagined it, Hashirama.”

“I actually –” Why was Hashirama’s mouth so dry? Was he getting sick? “– had an idea.”

Madara’s head cocked, almost imperceptibly. “What would that be?”

“What if we don’t have to exterminate the Hagoromo?” Hashirama said.

“… What?”

“What if we – just – _didn’t_ kill them?” Hashirama said, a wild look coming into his eye.

Madara stared at him, jaw hanging slightly agape. “How are we _never_ on the same page?” he demanded.

“No, Madara, listen – we don’t have to kill them! Think about it!”

“I am thinking about it!” Madara said. “I just told you I was thinking about it!”

“No, I mean think about it like _this_ – what if, instead of killing them, we… I don’t know, made them join us instead?”

“What, like you did with me?”

“You joining the clan doesn’t count, you could’ve left at any time –”

“– like hell I could –”

“– the _point_ I’m making,” Hashirama stressed, “Is that if we could convince – or, I guess, _coerce_ the Hagoromo into laying down their weapons, we’d achieve the same goal as exterminating them!”

Madara stared at him. Hashirama got the feeling _one_ of them was missing the point, but he wasn’t sure which of them it was. “I’m sure it’ll work out great, Hashirama – make them _promise_ to play nice. I’m sure they’ll be happy to comply – right up until your back is turned, fighting the Uchiha, when they’ll break all their promises of peace and immediately rejoin the battlefield!”

“Not if we make it so they can’t,” Hashirama said. “Not if they’re not a clan, anymore.”

“… How is that _any better_ than wiping them out?” Madara asked.

“At least they’ll still be alive!” Hashirama said. “We could – what if we let them keep their names? They can call themselves the Hagoromo, but they have to live with us, and they can’t attack us, or else we’ll crush them.”

“That’s cruel,” Madara said.

“It’s like keeping a pet!” Hashirama insisted.

Madara widened his eyes and leaned forwards, enunciating each word very carefully. “What you’re describing is _cruel_ , Hashirama.”

“What’s crueler? To live in a world without war or to be slaughtered like pigs because of Senju Butsuma’s _annoyance_?” Hashirama’s patience was wearing thin. Why wasn’t Madara getting it?

“Hashirama –” Hashirama wasn’t the only one getting frustrated. Madara ran a hand through his hair agitatedly and paced around the small aviary. “– you’re proposing we go to this clan, destroy their defenses, and then force them to ally with the Senju clan. Is that right?”

“Yes.”

“What if they get attacked?” Madara asked. “What if the land they’re on dies? What if the clan needs to move? What if –”

“They won’t be attacked,” Hashirama said. “And if they are, we’ll defend them as if they’re our own. We’ll help them relocate to better ground. We’ll give them supplies to make it through the winter. They just can’t attack anyone anymore. That’s it!”

“It’s humiliation,” Madara said finally, as if he’d just found the word he’d been looking for. “It’s humiliating, Hashirama. Have you ever had to rely on someone else for protection in your entire life? Have you ever had to entrust the things you love to someone else? What reassurance do the Hagoromo have that this arrangement will last beyond your death? What if your successor gets tired of them? What if Tobirama decides he likes the land they’re living on and wipes them out overnight?”

“What do I do, then?” Hashirama asked, despairingly. “You’re right, you’re – how _else_ do we make them stop? They don’t deserve to die! They’re a small clan, they’re practically powerless to begin with, but they still keep _attacking_ people. Their entire force in the battle earlier gave me a few scratches, that’s it. What can we do to convince them to stop fighting, Madara?”

Madara didn’t answer. He was staring at Hashirama’s breastplate. “Hashirama,” he said steadily. “What’s that hole?”

Hashirama looked down. “Oh,” he said. “I got stabbed.”

“Let me see,” Madara said harshly.

“It’s _fine_ , it was a friendly stab –”

“ _What the fuck is a friendly –_ no, no, I’m not doing this tonight. Take off your fucking armor, Hashirama.”

“Fine,” Hashirama rolled his eyes. He undid the clasps holding the cuirass together and set it softly down on the ground. Sure, it had a hole in the front – and the back, too, wow – but those could be repaired. Madara’s hands were on him before Hashirama could straighten up fully, pulling his bloodstained shirt aside to reveal a thin, deep puncture wound.

Hashirama steadfastly ignored the feeling of Madara’s warm hands on his skin as they splayed over his chest. “Happy?” he said. “I told you it’s fine.”

“This goes through your _lung_ ,” Madara said blankly.

Then, without warning, he stuck a finger inside the hole.

“Ow!” Hashirama said, batting it away. “Just because it’s healing doesn’t mean you can just – just – stick your fingers in it!”

Madara began to laugh. “Hashirama – you –” He rested a hand on his eyes. He struggled to get the words out through the laughter. “You have a _punctured lung_. How are you still alive? Are you actually some kind of god?!”

“I don’t _think_ so?”

Madara must have been drunk. It was the only explanation for what he did next – which was to wrap one of his hands around the back of Hashirama’s neck, pull him closer, and start speaking softly in his ear, laughter still present in the lines of his mouth. His other arm looped over Hashirama’s shoulders. Madara was draped over him like a shawl.

“You want peace with the Hagoromo,” Madara said to a statue, words coiling in the hollows of Hashirama’s throat. “You want peace with everybody. I think I’m starting to believe you. I’ll tell you a secret, Hashirama, but you have to promise not to tell anyone. Listen close.” He leaned even closer, until his lips were just shy of brushing the shell of Hashirama’s ear. “ _I want peace too_.”

Then he drew back all at once. Hashirama felt every centimeter of space between them as Madara retreated.

“You think this clan will listen to reason?” Madara asked, countenance again all needles and knives, as he walked across the aviary. “How well do you know Hagoromo Toshiki?”

“Not well,” Hashirama said. “How well do you know him?”

“Since childhood, you could say,” Madara said. “He is a man known for neither cowardice nor reason. He’s probably the source of many of Butsuma’s ‘annoyances,’ as you called them. Cow him into submission; woo the rest of the clan.” Madara’s eyes flicked over to Hashirama, still standing where he left him. “Let them keep their shinobi and their weapons.”

“What are the terms?” Hashirama asked.

“A voluntary alliance. As voluntary as it can be, when people like us are the ones asking. Acknowledgement of their fate should they continue to support my brethren.”

“Can such an alliance be trusted?”

“You’re starting to sound like me, Hashirama.” Madara’s roving feet brought him near the falcon, sleeping on his perch. “I would ask you this, though – does it matter? If they break the alliance, we finish what we started and annihilate them. If they keep the alliance, we’ve succeeded.”

“Between us, we can afford to gamble like this,” Hashirama said. “As long as we’re here there’s no real threat even if they break it, in the end. But what about when we’re gone? How will they keep the alliances then?”

“Already thinking that far ahead?” Madara asked, bemused. “If this treaty with the Hagoromo works, we’ll do it again. If it fails, we still do it again. Keep striving to gain as many allies as you can until you die, then whoever defects will have to fight ten clans instead of one.”

“It’s probably going to be more complicated than that,” Hashirama said. “But…”

“… But?”

Hashirama didn’t finish the thought. He leaned down and picked his broken armor up off the floor. “You’re coming with me tomorrow,” Hashirama said. It came out sounding less like a question than he’d intended.

“I am,” Madara said.

“Where have you been sleeping?” Hashirama asked, suddenly curious. He looked around the aviary as if just realizing where he was. “What have you been doing in camp?”

“Trying to avoid everyone,” Madara said shortly. “I know when I’m not wanted. I’ve mostly been attending to the birds here.” He eyed the leather glove on the wall. “Although there is a little girl that keeps trying to follow me. It’s like she thinks I don’t know she’s there.”

“Saya? That’s cute,” Hashirama said. “But where have you been _sleeping_?”

Madara shot him a dour look. “Whatever you’re leading to, drop it,” he said. “I’m fine.”

“You haven’t been sleeping in _here_ , have you?” The stiffness in Madara’s spine told him his guess was correct. “ _Madara_.”

“What, do you want me to go back to the shed?” Madara asked, hands on his hips. “They’ve filled it back up with provisions, but I _suppose_ I can ask them to clear it back out again –”

“I’m going to _burn_ that shed,” Hashirama said. “You deserve better than sleeping on the ground. Come with me.”

“If I sleep in your room again, the rumors will get worse,” Madara said, unmoving.

“What rumors?”

Madara glared at him. “You have absolutely no sense of self-preservation, do you? Do you even listen to your own clan mates?"

“Of course, I listen to them!” Hashirama said.

“Then have you heard them talking about _me_ , Hashirama? Do you know what they’re saying about you visiting me like this? Disrespecting your father in front of the clan elders for my sake? Do you know what kinds of things they’re starting to say about _you_?”

“I don’t really care what they say about me, Madara.”

“You _should!_ They can call me whatever they like – I don’t care – but you’re supposed to be the leader of the clan someday. You can’t –”

“Since when do you care for the Senju’s politics of succession?” Hashirama asked sharply.

“Since I joined the Senju clan,” Madara snarled. “Since it involves _you_ , you stupid shit.”

Hashirama looked at him. Madara looked angry, but more than that. He looked almost afraid.

“Madara,” Hashirama said. He measured each word carefully. “Do you remember what I said before? The other night. In the shed.”

Madara’s face jerked to the side. He stared at the falcon on its perch. “I remember.”

“Do you think these rumors are new?” Hashirama asked. “Do you think I haven’t heard them before? The son of the clan head, sneaking off to go meet with the enemy in the woods. They called me a traitor, and then they called me pathetic. They called me worse things, too, when they thought I couldn’t hear. But it doesn’t matter.”

Every word seemed to hit Madara like a stone. He drew in on himself, crossing his arms tight across his chest.

“It doesn’t matter for two reasons,” Hashirama continued. “First, because they know they need me. I don’t know if you noticed, but I’m pretty good at fighting.” This got a small snort out of Madara. “I’ll become clan head once Butsuma dies, and they’ll call me dishonorable, and worse, but it won’t matter. They’ll still follow my lead, because I can protect them better than anyone else in the clan.”

“What’s the second reason?” Madara said.

“They aren’t you,” Hashirama said. “Why do I care what they think? Unless you’re the one calling me disgusting, it doesn’t matter.” He paused, suddenly, the words dying in his throat. “Unless… you _do_ think I’m disgusting?”

“Of course not,” Madara said immediately. His voice was quiet, and he was still looking away from Hashirama. “How could I?”

“Then it’s fine,” Hashirama said. He felt a small weight lift from him that he hadn’t even realized was there. “They can call me names for the both of us. It doesn’t bother me.”

“You’re...” Madara didn’t seem to be able to finish the sentence. He trailed off, and finally turned to look back at Hashirama. “You deserve better.”

“So do you,” Hashirama said. “You’re not some demon to be reviled. You’re not a dog. You’re the son of a clan head, and a powerful shinobi, to be respected. You shouldn’t be sleeping on the floor,” Hashirama added pointedly.

Madara let out an aggressive sigh. “I’ll make you a deal, Hashirama. Go to your clan’s medicine woman – what was her name? Kotoe? Get her to put something in your wound. Then I’ll sleep in your house.”

“Kotoe’s busy,” Hashirama said defensively.

“Clearly, otherwise she wouldn’t have let you come bother me. Just go get a bandage over that hole or something. Anything. It’s really disconcerting to look at.”

“Will you still be here when I come back?”

“Yes,” Madara said.

So Hashirama gathered his armor and left.

* * *

Kotoe was, of course, furious. She berated Hashirama loudly for almost half an hour as she cleaned and bandaged the wound. He sat in the middle of the medical tent, red-faced, as she angrily pounded herbs into a thick paste. The other patients around him were quiet and still, trying to avoid becoming her next target.

“It’ll be healed by morning, Kotoe-san,” Hashirama said again.

“And what if it gets infected?” Kotoe demanded, slathering the ointment onto the wound with unnecessary force. “Have you ever gotten sick? How extensive are your healing powers? What if you start rotting on the inside because you didn’t bother to _cover the wound_ when you left the battlefield?!”

“I don’t think I ever have gotten sick, actually –”

_“That’s beside the point!”_

Eventually, Hashirama’s stab wound was covered a salve pungent enough to make his eyes water. Kotoe inspected the bandages one of her shaking apprentices wrapped around Hashirama’s torso with a critical eye, then shoved him out of the medical tent with almost as much force as she’d pulled him into it, scarcely giving him time to fully pull his kimono back on.

Madara was leaning on one of the tent poles, away from the cluster of sick beds. He swept over Hashirama’s disheveled appearance with an amused eye. “Feeling better?”

“Worse, actually. This salve smells like _fish_ ,” Hashirama said, wrinkling his nose. “But I held up my end. I’m starting to feel exhausted. Let’s go home.”

Hashirama could feel the people watching them as they left the square. He saw Keiko out of the corner of his eye, staring at them both with a dark look on her face. They were only a few yards away from the medical tent when they were intercepted.

“Hashirama-sama!” called the voice. It was Toka, jogging towards them, her arm in a sling. She skidded to a stop in front of them and bowed. As she straightened, she caught sight of Madara. After a brief moment of hesitation, she said, without bowing, “Uchiha Madara.”

“Senju Toka,” Madara returned. He didn’t bow either.

“I’m surprised you know my name,” Toka said, suspiciously. “I don’t think we’ve ever met on the battlefield before.”

“You failed to prevent both Hashirama’s capture by the Uzumaki and his internment in the Uchiha’s Kitahino Shrine,” Madara said easily. His eyes were hard. “That’s why I know it.”

“Settle down,” Hashirama told him. “Stop antagonizing people.”

“He’s right, Hashirama-sama,” Toka interrupted him. She was frowning fiercely. She bowed low, once to Hashirama, and then to Madara. “I came over to thank you, but I think, now, I should apologize instead. Uchiha Madara is right. It was my failure to act in time that led to your capture. Without Madara-san to come to your rescue, you very likely could have died.”

“Toka-san, don’t be so hard on yourself!” Hashirama said sternly. “You’re not to blame for those events – no one expected the Uzumaki to aid the Uchiha, least of all me!”

“You’re right, Hashirama-sama. But we didn’t expect the Hagoromo to intervene in the battle today, either. It was your quick response that allowed us to avoid the worst of their attack.” Toka wasn’t looking him in the eye. “Additionally, it was a mistake to assume you had fled the field with us. I should have stayed back and ensured your safety as we retreated. I humbly ask forgiveness for my rash actions.” She bowed again and remained bent at the waist.

“Don’t bother asking for forgiveness,” Madara said. “Forgiveness is worthless. Hashirama survived. Just do better next time.”

“Forgiveness isn’t worthless!” Hashirama said, elbowing Madara sharply. “But he is right, Toka-san. You don’t need to ask my forgiveness, here. You took quick action on the field today and deserve commendation for it as much as me. I am grateful to fight alongside you.” Hashirama bowed back.

Toka seemed very uncomfortable with this. Madara looked on, unmoved. His back stayed as straight as a rod.

“Good luck in your fight tomorrow, Hashirama-sama. Madara-san.” Toka retreated back into the night, white sling standing out against the dark shadows as she left.

“That was interesting, I suppose,” Madara said.

“Can you stop being so harsh with everyone?” Hashirama asked as they resumed walking. “You sound like you’re mad all the time when you talk to them! That’s why they don’t like you, Madara. They think you’re scary!”

“I’ll stop acting mad when they stop making me mad,” Madara said. “And I’m pretty sure they don’t like me because I’m directly responsible for murdering their relatives.”

“So scary,” Hashirama said. “I’ve never seen Toka act so chastised. I think you caught her off-guard.”

“So did the Uzumaki and the Hagoromo, it seemed. She should work on that.”

Hashirama shot back a retort, but Madara’s words stuck in his mind as they made their way back to the clan leader’s house. The Uzumaki and the Hagoromo. The Senju and the Uchiha. Hashirama felt like he was beginning to see the edges of something, a nebulous idea forming in the back of his skull – but the summer air was too humid, and Madara’s chakra burned beside him, too distracting for him to examine the thought too closely.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Who got the reference in the chapter title?


	10. A Fight

The Hagoromo were camped to the north, further upriver than the Uchiha or Senju encampments. Toka’s scouts had reported guards and barriers a mere 10 miles from their northern outpost – far too close for comfort. With only two of them travelling, Hashirama and Madara were able to make excellent time. They flew through the trees with barely any words between them.

Senju and Uchiha. Uzumaki and Hagoromo. The thread of the idea snagged at Hashirama’s mind, but something told him to wait. Let them deal with the Hagoromo first and see what resistance Hagoromo Toshiki threw their way.

Neither Hashirama nor Madara made any effort to mask their presence. Hashirama’s chakra unfurled about them like a storm, causing the trees to shudder with their passing. He could feel the anticipation rising in his chest. Madara soared behind him, one hand always on his katana, feet barely touching the tree branches before launching forward.

Word of their approach had clearly made it to the camp. Hashirama could see the glint of steel from the distance, through the tangle of trees, and signaled for them to stop. He dropped down out of the canopy and began to walk, calmly, along the forest floor. Madara followed like a shadow.

“What business do you have here?” a voice called, strong and demanding. Hashirama couldn’t see the speaker, but he felt a pulse of chakra as Madara’s eyes gleamed red in the shade.

“We’d like to speak with Hagoromo Toshiki,” Hashirama replied.

“Drop your weapons,” called the voice.

Madara laughed lowly.

“No,” Hashirama said.

The response was immediate. A hundred kunai slammed into the space Hashirama had been standing a moment before; a cutting blade of wind ripped through the trees towards them as they leapt backwards. Madara summoned a wall of fire that consumed the wind and burned white-hot as it spread back towards the camp.

Hashirama landed back on his feet as the _mokuton_ cleared a path through the flames. “We’d like to speak to Hagoromo Toshiki,” he repeated.

A shinobi wearing a brilliant white mantle dropped from the trees. Something sharp glittered in his hands, and he was on Hashirama in a flash, swinging wide. Hashirama’s sword met him halfway and clashed against his weapon – a long, thin dagger, made of some pure white metal. The shinobi’s eyes flashed as his other hand quickly formed a sigil, but as he opened his mouth Madara’s katana plunged into his neck, spraying Hashirama in a shower of blood. The body fell to the ground with a wet _thump_.

“Bring us to Hagoromo Toshiki,” Madara’s voice reverberated in the trees. “We’re really just here to talk.” His hands dripped with blood as he spoke.

A burst of wind came from before them, sending their hair whipping around their heads. The fires smoldering around them flared briefly, then died back.

A figure stood before them, again clothed in white. “I said to drop your weapons.”

“And we said, _no_ ,” Madara returned. He flicked the blood off his blade and slid it back into its sheath.

“Who are you?” Hashirama said. He did not sheath his sword.

“Hagoromo Tenshin,” replied the figure. He was thin and had long blond hair that was tied low at the base of his neck. “Uchiha Madara. Hashirama Senju. You will drop your weapons. Now.”

“Or what?” Hashirama asked. He began to walk forwards. “We’re just here to talk. If we wanted to kill you, we would have already. You know who we are. Just show us to Hagoromo Toshiki and we will leave.”

Tenshin faltered, slightly. Madara watched him blink twice, and added in a cutting voice, “Is Hagoromo Toshiki too scared to face me after our last encounter? Has he become such a coward in his old age?”

“Shut up,” Tenshin hissed. He drew his sword with a rasp.

“Enough,” said another voice.

A black smile crawled across Madara’s face.

Behind Tenshin, a small crowd of shinobi had begun to gather, all garbed in the same white robes. They dropped to their knees as a tall figure strode past.

Hagoromo Toshiki was tall – taller than Hashirama, and broad. He had a thin, cruel mouth, and deep-set eyes. His straw-blond hair was bound tightly on top of his head, and he walked past Tenshin, hand on his sword, with the easy arrogance of a man who’d never lost in a battle. He was also wearing white.

“Long time no see, Toshiki-chan.” Madara said.

“What do you want, little beast?” Toshiki said, mouth curling in a snarl. “You betray your family, and now you come for us, too?”

“It would seem that way, wouldn’t it?” Madara drawled. “But I’m actually here with an offer.”

Hashirama walked forward, until he stood directly in front of the clan leader. He held out his hand. “I am Senju Hashirama,” he said.

Toshiki stared at the hand like it was diseased, then looked at Hashirama.

Madara laughed.

“What Madara said is true,” Hashirama continued, retracting his hand. At least he’d tried to be polite. “We’re here with an offer.”

“I think I can guess what it is,” Toshiki sneered. “Join or die?”

“You’re right,” Madara said. “At least you’ve grown smarter, if not braver. But you’re missing the most important part.”

Toshiki’s face grew red. Tenshin walked forward to stand beside him. “What’s that?” he asked.

Hashirama smiled at him. The two men looked unnerved. “You’re Hagoromo Toshiki’s son, correct?”

There was an uneasy silence, and Tenshin shot a glance at Toshiki. Toshiki’s dark brown eyes didn’t leave Hashirama’s face. Then, slowly, Tenshin nodded.

“Great,” Hashirama said. “That makes this easy. Hagoromo Toshiki. Our proposal is this: ally with the Senju clan. Forswear any action against us or our allies. In return, keep your lives, your clan, your land and your shinobi.”

They were good terms, and clearly more than the two had expected – Hagoromo Tenshin’s eyebrows raised, slightly, and he glanced again at his father. Toshiki’s snarl deepened. “ _Or?_ ” he hissed.

“Or,” Madara said. “We will kill you, then give your son the same offer. And if he answers incorrectly, we will carry out the initial plan, and kill _everyone_.” It was clear which option Madara preferred.

There were glances exchanged between the shinobi behind Tenshin and Toshiki. Tenshin’s face was pale.

“The two of you, _alone_ , are going to exterminate _my_ clan? You say you’ll kill _me_ so easily?!” Toshiki’s voice rose with every word. He drew his sword, the blade rasping as it pulled from the sheath.

“Hagoromo Toshiki,” Madara said. “I know you’re a stupid, foolhardy man. But is your son ready to lead your clan? Look at him. He’s shaking in his little white boots.”

“Toshiki-san,” Hashirama said. “I don’t want to have to kill you. Madara wasn’t lying – we really were sent here to wipe you out. Your son knows my name; do you? You clearly know Madara. Sure, you might be able to take on _one_ of us –” A blatant lie, but it was the polite thing to say. “– but between the two of us, we will overpower your clan easily. Take my offer. The Senju clan will be your allies, too, and we can protect you from your enemies.”

“We do not need protection,” Toshiki spat.

“Don’t you?” Madara asked. “Is that why your clan fled north, four years ago? Was it a vacation? Your clan abandoned the Tenku Shrine _willingly_ , is that it?”

“Shut up!” Toshiki roared. He swung his sword at Madara – it was blindingly fast, but Madara’s eyes blazed burning red, and Toshiki froze. His body trembled, petrified, as he stared into that vermillion gaze.

“You need our help,” Hashirama said to Tenshin. “Take our offer.”

The forest was silent and still. The gathered shinobi watched Tenshin deliberate, his gaze sliding between his frozen father and the blood on Madara’s hands.

“… Don’t kill him,” Tenshin said. His shoulders slumped. He looked down at the body of the man on the ground, who was still clutching that strange white dagger. “You’ve proven your point. I will either convince my father… no. I will convince him to ally with the Senju clan. You will not be attacked by the Hagoromo again.”

“Not to belabor the point,” Hashirama said. “But if you can’t, and Toshiki does try to attack us, you know what we will be forced to do, right?”

Tenshin didn’t acknowledge Hashirama, but looked at Madara, avoiding his eyes, and said, “Please release him.”

“He’ll awaken before nightfall,” Madara said with an insouciant toss of hair. The black bled back into his eyes.

“Send an envoy to the Senju encampment,” Hashirama instructed. “Send them now and have them go quickly. We made a statement for them to deliver to my father, Senju Butsuma.”

“Your father? You mean you’re not acting as clan head?”

“Is there a problem?” Hashirama asked.

Tenshin hesitated, then took the small scroll Hashirama offered him. “No. There’s no problem.”

“Good. Make sure the envoy gets to the Senju camp before nightfall.”

Tensin nodded, then he and the gathered shinobi dissipated like mist. Three shinobi remained behind. Two of them came forward to seize the immobile Toshiki by the elbows before vanishing. The last one pulled out a long scroll and sealed the body into it, before disappearing as well. All three wore blank, white masks.

“What an eerie clan,” Hashirama said. He sheathed his sword and turned to face Madara.

“What were those instructions?” Madara asked. “Telling the envoy to arrive before nightfall. Is something going to happen?”

“I just want him to get there before us,” Hashirama said, sheepishly. “I felt like Butsuma would take it better if we pretended the Hagoromo just… beat us to it?”

“… You want to pretend we couldn’t _find_ them before they pledged allegiance?” Madara’s disbelief was clear on his face.

“Well, when you put it like that it sounds stupid,” Hashirama pouted.

Madara shook his head and looked around the burnt clearing. “I have to say,” he said. “That was an immensely unsatisfying fight.”

“Sorry to disappoint,” Hashirama said. “If we have time, we should spar again soon, though! Just like old times!” He leapt back up into the canopy with a small push of chakra.

Madara followed. “I doubt there’ll be time. You _are_ at war, remember.”

“I’ll make time,” Hashirama said, turning to grin at him mischievously. “I was a little let down by that fight, too, after all.”

* * *

Hashirama and Madara took a circuitous route back to the camp, at times deliberately slowing their pace to the point they were almost walking through the trees. They idly talked about meaningless things – which plants were edible in the region, why the Hagoromo all dressed like giant white birds, why the Uchiha fan was red and white…

It was… nice. Madara seemed much more at ease away from the Senju encampment, and Hashirama confessed that he, too, felt more comfortable away from the prying eyes of his clan. If Madara’s gaze lingered on Hashirama’s back when he thought he wasn’t looking, Hashirama didn’t mention it. If Madara’s hand kept slightly brushing his as they made their way through the forest – Hashirama didn’t mention that, either.

They wandered until it was almost nightfall, and Hashirama was confident that the envoy must have arrived at the Senju camp.

There was no one manning the gate as they approached. There were no people in the streets, either, as Madara and Hashirama proceeded to the clan leader’s house. The entire encampment was still and quiet. Hashirama would have suspected foul play – but the reassuring pressure of his clan mates’ chakra seeped out under the doorways of each house they passed. Everyone was there, at least – present, but hiding? Waiting?

The torches in front of the clan leader’s house were lit. Butsuma stood on the front doorstep, arms folded. He looked thunderous. The envoy from the Hagoromo clan was standing before him – bowed sharply at the waist, yes, but standing. His white mask shone in the torchlight.

“Hashirama,” Butsuma said as he approached. “Care to explain this?”

“Honorable father, it looks like a messenger,” Hashirama said. Madara snorted.

Butsuma’s eyes narrowed. “Care to tell me _why_ a messenger from the Hagoromo clan is at my door?”

“This one is simply here to offer a humble pledge of allegiance, Butsuma-sama,” the messenger said.

“I didn’t ask you,” Butsuma said. “Hashirama. Explain.”

“Honorable father, we could take this discussion inside.”

“We will have this discussion here and now, Hashirama. Did you exterminate the Hagoromo clan, as you were commanded to do?”

Hashirama looked Butsuma in the eye. “I eliminated the threat, honorable father.”

“Those were _not_ your orders, Hashirama.”

“We are no longer in any danger from the north, honorable father.”

The envoy’s back was stiff as the barbs flew between Butsuma and Hashirama. Madara looked bored.

“We were never in danger to begin with, Hashirama!”

“Honorable father, you said the clan was a ‘menace.’ My actions were to turn that menace into a blessing. Is friendship not better than ashes?”

“This was not your decision to make.” Butsuma descended the stairs, the fury etched in every line of his face. “This decision was made by your elders, and by _me_. Disobedient son, you are too impulsive, and it will get you _killed_.”

Madara stepped forward in a fluid motion, blocking Butsuma’s advance towards Hashirama. “Senju Butsuma,” he said. “I agree, Hashirama is stupid and headstrong. But can you deny the benefit of having eyes in the north? I can attest to the usefulness of the Hagoromo as a vanguard, when they are given the chance to entrench themselves. They are a loyal clan, too – when not faced with the likes of your son and me.”

Butsuma locked eyes with Madara, nostrils flaring. He was a little taller than Madara, Hashirama suddenly noticed.

“And you, of all people, would offer me advice, now?” Butsuma said, quietly. There was violence in his eyes.

The envoy cleared his throat. “Butsuma-sama, I can confirm what Uchiha Madara says is true. The Hagoromo are steadfast. We will be able to defend the Senju clan against attacks in the north, and –”

“ _Shut. Up_.” Butsuma hissed. The envoy’s mouth shut with a _click_ that could be heard through his mask.

“Honorable father, we would not presume to dictate your response to this offer,” Hashirama said. He bowed, slightly, and squeezed Madara’s elbow in a vice grip until he, grudgingly, bent his neck as well. “Your loyal son sought only to provide you with an option, one that was assumed to be unattainable before. Wouldn’t the other elders be interested to know the Hagoromo are open to peace?”

“Conniving brat.” Butsuma said. He turned to the Hagoromo with a sudden sharpness that made the man flinch. “Leave,” he said.

“Butsuma-sama?”

“Did the Hagoromo send a deaf man as their envoy? I said, _leave_. Your master will have my response tomorrow, be it a blade or an open palm.”

The envoy bowed twice, in quick succession, and vanished in a swirl of mist. Butsuma watched the fog dissipate, and then whirled around and socked Hashirama across the jaw.

Hashirama staggered back, and as he did so Madara lunged forwards, seizing Butsuma by the collar of his robes. There was the glint of metal, as both Butsuma and Madara realized they held a kunai to each other’s throats.

Hashirama flexed his jaw, feeling it pop his ears. “Stop,” he said, flatly. The two looked over at him. “Enough. I’m done.” Hashirama stared out into the dark night for a long moment, then launched himself into the blackness.

“Hashirama!” Butsuma roared. “Come back here!”

Madara said nothing. He watched with glowing red eyes as Hashirama fled.


	11. A Recalibration

There was something freeing about moonlight, Hashirama reflected. It cast a pale curtain through the trees, the dappled shadows dancing as the branches shifted in the breeze. Hashirama was lost in the rustle of the leaves, the sound of ancient wood creaking as he flew past. The ground below him was lost in shadow, the sky above was covered by the canopy. Hashirama was alone in a cocoon of soft silence, save for the sharp _tak-tak_ as he ricocheted over the branches. He didn’t know where he was going, but he could feel the forest stretching out around him. He could sense the roots, buried deep in the earth, sprawling out for miles without end. Without the _mokuton_ , he’d have lost his footing hours ago – but as it was, the trees shifted to accommodate, and each step was as sure as if he was running on a paved road.

It had been a long time since Butsuma had been angry enough to strike his son. Hashirama had barely even registered the pain – it was nothing compared to even the lightest of Madara’s punches, and the bruise had barely had time to form before it healed itself. It wasn’t the pain that spurred Hashirama onwards. Was it shock?

Hashirama didn’t know what he was feeling. Part of him was dimly cognizant of the urge to cry, but it was so distant he could barely identify it for what it was. When was the last time he cried? Could he even cry, anymore? Hashirama scoffed at himself. He was a grown man. What kind of grown man cried after one punch?

Another emotion – one Hashirama identified readily enough – was anger. He’d been growing more and more accustomed to this one, with all its iterations and colors. Frustration, resentment, spite; Hashirama didn’t like to admit it, but he felt them as readily as anyone else. But who was there to admit it to? He was in the middle of nowhere, under a gleaming white moon in a forest with roots that stretched on for miles. He slowed to a stop, sandals slipping slightly on the smooth wood of the bough.

“I think,” Hashirama said, his voice a hoarse whisper. How long had he been running? He was thirsty. He cleared his throat and tried again. “I think,” he said. “I might hate him a little.”

The trees said nothing, of course. But Hashirama stood and listened to the wind rustling their limbs around him, over him, and imagined that they were listening to him, too.

Hashirama sat cross-legged on the wide tree branch and made a confession to the tangle of branches above. “I might have just… gotten used to the idea that I was supposed to love him,” Hashirama said. “A son is meant to love his father, right? He’s meant to follow orders. To protect his brothers and his family.” He paused. “But my little brother is… not someone I need to protect, I don’t think. And my father doesn’t want my help. That much is clear to me now.”

Hashirama laid a hand on the branch before him. He pulled forth a small sprout, with delicate green leaves. It unfurled into his palm. “What do I do,” he continued, quietly. “If I’m unfit to carry out my purpose in life? I’m a poor son. I’m an absent older brother. I don’t think my clansmen would trust me to lead, at this point…” Hashirama ticked off his roles in his head like he was reading off a list. Son, brother, successor to his father… what else was he, beyond that? What was his purpose as a person if not to protect those around him?

He had the horrible, nagging feeling that it had gone wrong, somewhere. Had he said something? Done something, to make his life veer off track? But he didn’t even know what the correct ‘track’ would be.

Hashirama closed his eyes and breathed in deep. He could smell moss, the deep, earthy smell of a forest after rain. He could smell the rotting leaves, far below him. He could smell the crisp, fresh air that blew down from the surrounding mountains. He breathed, and as he did so, he _reached_.

Trees grow in every direction – like the vajra in the Senju kamon, their roots stretching into the earth even as their branches scraped the sky. Hashirama let the wind carry his breath down into the soil, let his mind wander as it branched into a thousand fractals, blooming and twisting along the venation.

Did his clan need him to fight the Uchiha? Did his father need him to take his place? Did Tobirama need him to protect him, guide him? Hashirama knew the answers, even as he asked himself the questions.

But then, why should they need him to fight the Uchiha? Why should he, and he alone, be charged with defending Tobirama? Why should Butsuma’s vision of the world inherently surpass his own? Must he fight the Uchiha? Must Tobirama need his help? Must he obey his father? Must it be that, if these answers were false, that the blame lay on him alone?

The snaking thought from before bored into his head. Senju. Hagoromo. Uzumaki. Uchiha. Hagoromo. Uchiha. Uzumaki. Senju.

 _You want peace with everybody_ , Madara said.

Hashirama opened his eyes.


	12. A Paradise

Hashirama shed his armor in the hollow of a tall tree. The morning sun cast a hazy glow through the branches as he slowly began to make his way east.

No one followed him. This wasn’t surprising. His family probably still had their hands full with the Uchiha clan’s attacks, which was fine by him. Let Madara’s kin keep Butsuma occupied a little longer.

The Land of the Whirlpools was to the east of the Land of Fire. Broad oaks gradually gave way to beech trees; mountainous bluffs gave way to rolling hills and broad rivers. Eventually, the rivers bled out into a sea, and there, on a small island within sight of the shore, was the homeland of the Uzumaki clan.

It took Hashirama three days to reach the ocean. Standing on the narrow bank, he covered his eyes against the sun’s glare and took in the view. The island of Whirlpools wasn’t far from the shore at all – he could even make out the famous mangrove forests that spilled down the hills into the shallow water. There was no dock, however, and no boats anywhere nearby. Not even fishermen, Hashirama observed with some interest. How inconvenient!

He walked down to the water’s edge and let the chakra pool in his feet. Hashirama had wanted to avoid making himself too big of a target – even a civilian would notice someone running across the water like this – but it was probably fine. He was almost at his destination, anyway. He started jogging. The waves occasionally lapped at his heels as he crossed the narrow inlet with broad strides.

Hashirama wouldn’t say he’d been expecting a warm welcome – the Uzumaki were _distant_ relations, at best, and they _had_ helped the Uchiha abduct him – but he had expected _something_. When he reached the island, it seemed completely deserted. The mangrove forest was silent and still, save for the brightly colored birds that fled as he approached. Hashirama finally wandered deep enough into the forests for his shoes to touch sandy earth and weighed his options. Even as small as the island was, he didn’t really have time to wander around aimlessly searching for this clan. Not to mention, given who he was looking for, there was a good chance they wouldn’t let him find them unless they _wanted_ him to.

Hashirama came to a decision. The mangrove tree beside him shuddered and began to grow, stilt roots carving paths through the silt as it rocketed skywards. Hashirama grabbed a limb and clung to it as it cleared the short canopy.

Hashirama looked out over the tangled mesh of foliage disappearing over the crest of the hill, sucked in a deep lungful of air, and bellowed, “ _HELLO!”_ A few birds immediately took off, squawking in alarm. Hashirama waited, but there was no sign of any other life. “ _IT’S SENJU HASHIRAMA, I’M HERE TO TALK TO –_ oof!” A small white rock struck him square in the abdomen. Hashirama watched it fall to the ground below dumbly, and whipped his head around, trying to see the source.

“You’re so noisy!” came a voice. A very familiar voice. Hashirama looked down.

A woman with hair the color of the blood was standing at the base of the mangrove tree. She was wearing a pale green yukata. Hashirama let go of the limb and skidded down to the tree roots.

“Hello!” Hashirama said again, panting slightly. Yelling was hard! “I’m –”

“Senju Hashirama,” the woman said, amused. “I heard you the first time.”

She was pretty, Hashirama noticed. The observation popped into his head with the same detachment as if he was examining a piece of artwork. The woman before him had delicately sculpted features, her dark red hair twisted up into two buns on either side of her head. There was a small purple diamond in the middle of her forehead that disappeared behind a lock of hair as she shifted her weight before him.

“What are you doing here, Senju Hashirama?” the woman asked.

“I’m trying to get to the Uzumaki!” Hashirama said brightly. He knew this woman was part of the clan – between the hair and the deadly accuracy in her aim, how could she not be? But he was trying to be polite, so he just said, “I’m here to discuss… well, diplomacy? I suppose?”

“You _suppose_?” The woman asked. She giggled slightly. “The Senju clan sent _you_ on a diplomatic mission?”

Hashirama hung his head despondently. “Am I really that bad?”

“Not as bad as some,” the woman said. She tilted her head and surveyed Hashirama with warm dark eyes. For some reason, the action made Hashirama think of Madara with a pang of longing. “I suppose I could help you find the Uzumaki. They must be around here somewhere, right?”

“I hope so,” Hashirama said. “What’s your name, by the way?”

The woman smiled at him. She had dimples. “Uzumaki Mito.”

“Oh! You’re Uzumaki Ashina’s daughter! My name is –”

“Senju Hashirama?”

Hashirama flushed. “Ah. Yeah.” He cleared his throat. “Well, it’s a pleasure to meet you, Uzumaki-san!”

“Call me Mito. Come on, then. I think the clan might be over this way.” Mito nodded deeper into the clustered mangrove trees. “After you, Senju-san.”

“Oh, Hashirama’s fine!”

“Really? How interesting. Lead the way, then, Hashirama.”

Mito followed him closely as he wandered into the forest, giving only the barest indications of whether Hashirama was going the right way or not. After almost an hour of “Hmm’s” and “Maybe this way?” they finally arrived at a small clearing, nestled between two parallel rivers. Hashirama looked around curiously as Mito came up beside him.

“Do you think we’re lost?” Mito asked.

“I hope not,” Hashirama said. “I was really hoping to speak with Uzumaki Ashina today.”

“I’m sure we’ll get there soon,” Mito said. A small smile curved her mouth. “Let’s take a quick break! It’s a nice day, and the sound of the streams are so lovely in this spot.” It _was_ a very peaceful clearing. The rare patch of grass was hemmed in with verdant green bushes, overlaid with the gentle rustling of the mangrove trees.

“Um,” Hashirama said. “Alright?”

“You’re an interesting man, Senju Hashirama,” Mito said as she folded her knees into the grass. “I was sure you’d recognized me back there, but I suppose our first meeting _was_ a bit hurried.”

Hashirama didn’t sit. He looked at Mito.

Mito languidly let her eyes rest of Hashirama’s face. “I know we already withdrew from the conflict,” she said, smoothing out her yukata with delicate hands. “But I would like to personally reiterate my regret for the role I played in assisting with your capture.”

“And what role was that?” Hashirama asked.

“I was the one who sealed away your _mokuton_.”

– _thick black lines spreading like snakes up Hashirama’s arms –_

“Oh,” he said. “Well. Thanks for the apology, I guess?”

Mito looked tense. She stared at him expectantly for a long minute, poised as if ready to flee.

“… Was… that it?”

“…Yes,” she said at last.

There was an awkward silence.

“You’re not… mad?”

“I mean,” Hashirama stammered. “No? I don’t think – no one _died_ , so – well, actually, I guess a few Uchiha did die. No Senju died.” Hashirama shut his mouth and scratched the back of his head. He felt kind of bad for putting it like that.

“When Uchiha Madara retrieved you, yes.” Mito was looking a little calmer now. She looked away from Hashirama, towards the back of the clearing. “I am… glad to hear this incident didn’t… irrevocably damage the relationship between our clans, then.” She nodded once, sharply, and got back to her feet. “You can come out, everyone.”

A dozen shinobi materialized around the clearing. Hashirama looked around, askance, then back at Mito.

“You were going to try and _ambush_ me?” he said in a wounded voice.

“No,” Mito said calmly. “But I wanted to make sure you weren’t here to… well.”

“Get revenge?”

“Yes. Unfortunately,” Mito began to make her way to the back of the clearing. Hashirama, for the first time, saw a wooden door with a faded red spiral painted on it, tucked back into the foliage. “You won’t be able to speak to Uzumaki Ashina.”

“Why not?” Hashirama said.

The shinobi fell into line behind Mito as she turned to regard him evenly. “Because Uzumaki Ashina passed away two years ago. I now lead the Uzumaki. You may hold your diplomatic mission with me.”

* * *

The door led them through a series of tunnels, jumbled and twisting, turning sharply at odd corners and branching off into dark paths. Mito led the group surely, without pausing at any of the intersections. Hashirama followed, and the Uzumaki shinobi followed him. Several of them held bright torches that cast strange shadows on the rough walls as they passed. Every once in a while, Hashirama had to suppress a shiver, as if he’d walked through an invisible waterfall. Defenses?

“We’re here,” Mito announced. She’d come to a stop in front of a solid stone wall. She laid a hand flat against it, and immediately a dark web of writing began to scrawl across the rocky surface. “Welcome to Uzushio, Hashirama.”

The wall melted like water, and warm sunlight spilled into the tunnel. Hashirama squinted against the sudden glare, but as his eyes adjust to the light, he felt his jaw drop a little.

Uzushio was _gorgeous_. It was a small settlement, built into the mouth of a long-dead volcano. Vibrant green trees spilled over the crater mouth, intercut with ribbons of crystal-clear water that flowed from some mysterious source. Massive red flowers bloomed out of the shade; birds with feathers like gemstones soared overhead. The buildings themselves were built out of stone. Balconies of verdant plants covered almost every visible inch of the town, and terraced gardens were carved into the walls of the crater. 

“I had no idea Uzushio looked like _this_!” Hashirama exclaimed. He saw a few of the shinobi trade amused glances behind his back. “This puts the Senju encampment to shame – Mito, this is incredible!”

“It’s just a volcano, Hashirama.” Though her words were humble, a small, pleased, grin curled at the corners of her mouth. “The Uzumaki clan are the only ones on this island, so we’ve had the luxury to build up our base a bit over the years. The seals you passed through in the tunnels encircle us from every direction, so we can relax a little here.”

Mito began to stride down a long paved pathway that snaked through the terraced gardens toward the town center. The shinobi behind Hashirama vanished into puffs of smoke – presumably to go make sure all the seals were intact after bringing Hashirama through. His chakra had a bad tendency to break those kinds of things.

“So, what is this diplomatic mission you’re on?” Mito asked conversationally as they passed through a grove of plum trees, branches laden with blooming flowers.

“It’s… a little hard to explain.” Hashirama laughed sheepishly. “I might need to send a message or two before we really get into it, if that’s alright?”

“That shouldn’t be a problem,” Mito said serenely. “I’m sure you’re tired after your trip. I’ll have someone set up a room in the guesthouse for you.”

“That’s greatly appreciated, thank you!”

“Are the battles against the Uchiha going well?”

“I think so,” Hashirama said. “As well as can be expected.”

“That’s good to hear.”

The center of Uzushio was a marketplace. It was just as verdant and colorful as the rest of the town. Smiling red-haired vendors bowed to Mito and Hashirama as they passed by piles of fresh fruit.

“You’ll find the messenger station that way,” Mito said, pointing to the east. “It’s the large building with the sign for ‘Water’ on it. The guesthouse is near my residence, which is in the north of the city. It’s the one with the symbol for ‘Tide’ on it. I have a few matters to attend to, so I hope you’ll excuse my absence, Hashirama. Anyone around town will be happy to help you if you need assistance.”

“Of course,” Hashirama said. “Thank you for your hospitality, Mito.”

She smiled, dimples appearing briefly in her cheeks, before turning and floating away through the colorful stalls.

Hashirama took a moment to breath in the heady scent of flowers that pervaded the marketplace – how could a place like this be _real_? – and set off in the direction of the messenger’s outpost.

Hashirama had expected an aviary, if he was going to be honest. Or a courier station. He didn’t expect the large round building to open into an equally large round room that was dominated by a wide, shallow pool of water. As Hashirama walked in through the front door, a shinobi at a small kiosk off to the side looked up from his book in surprise.

“Ah – you’re –” he said, snapping his book shut. The sound echoed in the wide chamber.

“Senju Hashirama!” Hashirama said cheerfully. “Is this the messenger station?”

“I – uh, yes,” the shinobi stuttered. He stood up, pushing his chair back with a clatter, and came out from behind the counter. “Can I help you, Senju-sama?”

“I’m, uh… here to deliver a message?” Hashirama looked around. Aside from the still pool and the small kiosk, the room was almost completely bare. Tall slit windows near the ceiling let dusty shafts of light cast over the water.

“Oh,” the other man said. “Um, that’s not – well, we don’t normally allow outsiders to use…” He trailed off, crossing and uncrossing his arms.

“Uzumaki Mito told me to come here, if that… helps?”

“Ah, Mito-sama authorized it? Then there’s no problem!” The shinobi beamed. He didn’t try to verify this claim at all, which Hashirama noted with some amusement. “My name is Mitsuaki. I assume you haven’t used the pool before, right?”

“Right.”

“Uzushio’s Junsui Pool can instantly transmit messages with… uh, well. It can instantly transmit messages.”

Hashirama smiled at him. “It’s okay, you don’t have to explain how it works. Clan secrets, right?”

Mitsuaki nodded and walked over to the water’s edge. “In any case, Senju-sama, I can send up to a minute’s worth of information to anyone in a nearby country. If their chakra control is good enough, I might be able to relay something back to you, as well.”

“Oh, really? That’s great!” Hashirama said. “The person I want to send a message to has incredible chakra control, so he’ll probably have some things to say. This is exciting!”

“Who would you like me to contact, Senju-sama?”

“Can you reach Uchiha Madara? He should be somewhere near the center of the Land of Fire.”

“Uchiha… Madara.” Mitsuaki’s face paled a little, but he swallowed and nodded determinedly. “Sure thing.” His hands formed a few symbols – Hashirama looked away out of respect – and Mitsuaki placed his palms on the surface of the water. “Speak whenever you’re ready, Senju-sama.”

“Alright! I – hm. Hello, Madara! I’m safe! I’m actually talking to you through – uh. I’m in Uzushio! Hahaha. Please don’t worry, I will come back soon – probably a day or two? It’s gorgeous here. Oh! I wanted to ask you – did Butsuma agree to ally with the Hagoromo? Please let me know, if you can!”

Mitsuaki’s eyebrows raised a little at the mention of the Hagoromo, but he nodded. Hashirama assumed this meant the message went through and waited patiently to see if there would be a response.

Mitsuaki’s eyes went wide. An embarrassed blush colored his cheeks. His mouth dropped.

“…What did he say?” Hashirama asked at last, unable to contain his curiosity.

“He – um!” Mitsuaki’s stammer was back. He withdrew his hands from the water and wiped them on his pants distractedly. “He’s! Not happy!” He laughed awkwardly, avoiding Hashirama’s gaze.

“Did he mention Butsuma?” Hashirama urged.

“Yes! He said… um. Butsuma agreed to the alliance.”

Hashirama’s shoulders sagged in relief. “Oh, thank god!” He laughed.

“He, uh, also said… he’s, coming? Here? To Uzushio?” With every word, Mitsuaki’s voice raised in pitch. He looked deathly pale. “Oh god. Uchiha Madara’s coming to kill us. I have to – I have to go tell Mito-sama –” He scrambled to his feet and was out the door before Hashirama could stop him.

“Ah,” Hashirama said, watching the door swing on its hinges. “Telling Madara where I was… might have been a bad idea, in retrospect.” He should follow Mitsuaki. Madara _probably_ wasn’t on his way there to kill anyone – but it never hurt to be _prepared_ for it.


	13. A Meeting

Mito was wearing nicer clothes, Hashirama saw. She’d changed out her simple green yukata for a kimono made of dark green silk patterned with intricate red spirals. She was standing before a panting Mitsuaki, in the doorway to a large, circular compound. Hashirama could feel the low buzz of chakra as her guards gathered.

“Senju-dono,” she said as he approached.

“Uzumaki-dono,” he returned, dipping his head.

“I am told we will soon be joined by another guest of the Senju clan,” Mito said. Her eyes were hard. “Do you have any words for us regarding this news?”

“Uzumaki-dono, I would suggest you take reasonable precaution,” Hashirama said. “Uchiha Madara can be… volatile.”

Mito stared at him for a long second. Then she pursed her lips and, very carefully, said, “Senju-dono, the Uzumaki clan have not harmed you or transgressed against you in your time in the Land of Whirlpools, correct? We have not threatened or menaced you in any way.”

“That is correct,” Hashirama said. “You’ve been extremely hospitable!”

Mito and Mitsuaki exchanged a look.

It suddenly dawned on Hashirama what Mito was talking about. “ _Oh_ ,” Hashirama exclaimed, waving his hands. “No, no, Madara’s not coming here to kill anyone. Sorry, I thought that was obvious. No, he’s probably just mad at me _._ ”

“Are you asking the Uzumaki clan to shelter you from Uchiha Madara?” Mito asked slowly.

“What? No, why would I need shelter from Madara?”

“You said he’s…” Mito drew in a breath. “Nevermind. Will my people be safe, Hashirama?”

“He’s not going to hurt anyone,” Hashirama reassured her. “Well, I mean. He’s not going to hurt anyone who isn’t me. He might hurt me. But I don’t need your help!” He clarified quickly, waving his hands again. Mito was beginning to look concerned. “He won’t hurt me too badly. If he hurts me. That is to say, he’s never _actually_ hurt me – I mean we used to try to kill each other, but that was on the battlefield, and this isn’t a battlefield! Not to say it couldn’t become a battlefield, I mean, anywhere can be a battlefield if you really want it to be. And he did punch me that one time, but that didn’t really _hurt_ so much as _sting_ –”

Mito held up a long delicate hand. Hashirama stopped mid-sentence. Mitsuaki was gaping at him with something akin to horrified pity.

“Senju-dono,” she said firmly. “All I needed to know was whether or not to command my fighters to prepare for an assault. If you want to engage with Uchiha Madara, I would politely ask that you do it outside the walls of Uzushio.”

“Of course,” Hashirama said. “I actually had a request as well, Uzumaki-dono.”

“What is it?”

“Could we postpone the diplomatic negotiations until Uchiha Madara has arrived? Since he’s on his way here, it would be better to have his input, since it concerns him directly.”

Mito looked exhausted. “You want to discuss diplomacy in context with Uchiha Madara,” she said. “You want me to bring an _angry_ Uchiha Madara inside my walls.”

“He won’t be angry by _then_ ,” Hashirama said. “But I understand your trepidations, Uzumaki-dono.”

Mito muttered something that sounded suspiciously close to, “ _Do_ you, Senju-dono?”

“I will take full responsibility for Uchiha Madara while he is with me. That said, it is just a request. If Uzumaki-dono feels it too impetuous of me to ask it, the talks can proceed without him.”

“No, no. It’s fine. We’ll just –” Mito turned and gestured to the nearby trees. A shinobi materialized at her side. “Please ensure everyone is… _aware_ that Uchiha Madara will be entering Uzushio for _diplomatic_ reasons. He will be considered a guest under Senju Hashirama.”

“Understood, Mito-sama.” The shinobi vanished.

“Mitsuaki,” Mito turned back to him. “Thank you for relaying this message to me with such expediency. You may return to your post.”

Mitsuaki fled back to the building marked with the sign for ‘Water.’ It made a lot more sense in hindsight, Hashirama supposed. Despite Mitsuaki’s terrified reaction, very little changed in Uzushio to prepare for Madara’s arrival. Hashirama might have seen a few more shinobi on the streets than before, but that was it. The sky above the volcano crater shimmered slightly in the afternoon sun.

Hashirama was led to the building marked ‘Tide,’ shown to a series of well-appointed but sparse rooms, and politely, but firmly, told to stay put. Hashirama, not wanting to inconvenience his hosts any more than he already had, complied. The guest quarters were well lit, with broad windows and bright lamps. The tatami mats on the floor were woven through with strips of blue, and the carved ceilings seemed to move whenever Hashirama looked at them too closely. He passed the hours sleeping, meditating, and reading the assorted books that were tucked away in one of the cupboards. Hashirama was, to put it bluntly, very bored.

It had taken him three days to travel from the Senju encampment to the Land of Whirlpools. Madara made the trip in one.

The first sign that something was amiss was the bell. It was early morning on the second day. Hashirama had just returned from the marketplace, chewing absently on a peach, when a soft tinkling chime resounded throughout the city.

A knock sounded almost immediately on the door to the guest rooms. Hashirama opened it to see Mito, hair pinned tight to her head, small tags dangling from each bun. She pointed down the hallway, towards the entrance. “I think you have a visitor, Senju-dono. My shinobi will accompany you to the beach.”

Hashirama nodded and began to make his way outside. The previously-bustling marketplace was empty – the vendors had abandoned their stalls, still laden with produce, to the hot sun. There were no smiling villagers as Hashirama returned up the long stone path towards the side of the crater.

A shinobi wearing a pale green haori waited for him by the blank cliff face. He nodded briefly to Hashirama as he approached and unsealed it, ducking wordlessly into the cool tunnels. Hashirama followed suit. He could still hear the tinkling chimes. Was this how they knew to go look for him when he'd first entered the island? They came upon the wooden door relatively quickly, and Hashirama was thrust back into the sunlight.

He could hear a voice in the distance say, “I won’t ask again.”

“Madara!” Hashirama called, launching into a sprint. The shinobi accompanying him let out a small curse and scrambled to keep up. Mangrove trees blazed past as Hashirama followed the source of the voice. He could feel Madara’s chakra through the trees, blazing hot as ever –

Madara met him halfway, abandoning the defensive shinobi he’d been encircled by and slamming into Hashirama at full speed. “Hashirama!” They both went down in a tangle of limbs. “You idiot! You fucking _idiot_!” Madara ranted, seizing Hashirama by the collar and shaking him. “If I’d known you were going to _leave the country,_ I would have followed you! I expected you to come back that _night_ , Hashirama, and then you go missing for _four days_?! And the next thing I hear you’re with the _Uzumaki_ – who, if you forgot, are the only ones who can actually _stop your mokuton_?!”

“Madara,” Hashirama said. Madara was kneeling over him, fury blazing in his eyes. He hadn’t stopped shaking Hashirama. The Uzumaki shinobi watched from a distance, clearly uncomfortable.

“You keep asking me to stay, stay, stay,” Madara punctuated each word with a slap against Hashirama’s chest. “But I turn my back and you go completely off the map! How is that fair? Did you even think what that would look like to your clan? I had to deal with Butsuma! I had to be the one to convince him his son hadn’t just become a rogue agent!”

“Butsuma thought I _defected_?”

“ _Yes_!”

“Senju-sama, we’ll be waiting at the door,” one of the shinobi interjected quietly. Hashirama could hear the sudden rush of wind as they flashed away.

“I’m sorry, Madara,” Hashirama said.

“Did it even occur to you,” Madara said. “That I would be worried?” He’d stopped shaking Hashirama, a fact that Hashirama was imminently grateful for, but he still clutched at Hashirama’s shirt with a vice-like grip. His head was bowed. “You don’t get to just _leave_ , Hashirama. Not when it’s like this.”

“You’re acting like we’ve never spent time apart before,” Hashirama said. He sat up. “We’ve gone weeks, months, without seeing each other. Where did all this come from?”

“That was before,” Madara said harshly. “Even then, I knew where you _were_. If you were with your clan, you were safe. Even if you were fighting my family alone, you’d still be safe. But I find out you went to the _Uzumaki_ , the one place where I know you’re _not_ safe –”

“I’m _perfectly_ safe here,” Hashirama protested. “I’m sorry I made you worried, Madara.”

“It’s been almost a month since I surrendered,” Madara said. “It’s been little over a month since Izuna died. Your brother came back into the camp, the night before last.” Madara finally looked up. “Uchiha Tajima is gone.” There was something dead in his voice.

Hashirama didn’t care that they were half-lying on a muddy beach. He didn’t care that they were probably being watched by Uzushio’s guards. He took Madara by the shoulders and pulled him close, wrapping his arms around him, burying his face into the thick tangle of Madara’s hair.

“I’m sorry,” Hashirama said.

“I’m not,” Madara said into his shoulder. His own arms came up around Hashirama, one hand clutching him by the waist as if clinging to a lifeline. “Of everyone Senju Tobirama has killed, I hate him for this death the least. But god, I still hate him.” His fingers dug in deep. “It took everything in me not to kill him in his sleep, Hashirama. He’s taken my entire family from me, now.”

“You are not alone,” Hashirama said, pulling back to look Madara in the eye. “Please tell me you know that.”

Madara looked at him silently for a long minute. “I know,” he said at last. “Do not disappear again. If I stay with you, that means you have to stay with _me_ , Hashirama.”

 _Do you still want to die?_ Hashirama thought, looking into his eyes. _Is that still why you’re here?_ “How did you get here so quickly?” was what came out of his mouth.

“I flew,” Madara said shortly. He stood, pulling Hashirama to his feet, and began shaking wet sand off of his mantle. “You are uninjured, then?”

“Completely,” Hashirama reassured him. “The Uzumaki have treated me better than the Senju, if I’m being honest!” Hashirama laughed, but Madara’s face grew dark.

“About that,” Madara said. “I had a long _talk_ with Butsuma after you left. He shouldn’t be a problem anymore.”

“I – you didn’t _kill_ him, did you? Madara –”

Madara flushed indignantly. “No, I didn’t kill him! I told you, we _talked_!”

“Why did you say it so ominously?!”

“That’s just how my voice sounds!”

“Senju-sama? Are you still alive?” It was one of the shinobi. He’d come back to check on them, it seemed.

“I’m fine!” Hashirama called. He tugged at Madara’s arm. “Come on. You need to see Uzushio – the Uzumaki have an _incredible_ home!”

Madara let himself be dragged into the small clearing, only raising an eyebrow at the tunnels. His usual mask of indifference was back. Hashirama almost felt giddy with excitement as the shinobi guide opened the seal to the volcano.

Madara’s reaction was everything Hashirama had hoped. After shielding his eyes against the sudden glare, Madara squinted and began to take in the details of Uzushio. His jaw went slack. His eyes widened by a fraction. His face barely changed, but to Hashirama it was the equivalent of him bursting to tears.

“Isn’t it beautiful?” Hashirama asked eagerly.

“It’s… green,” Madara said. His black eyes slowly swept over the terraced gardens.

“Come on! Let’s go talk to Mito – now that you’re here we can finally talk about the alliances!”

“Who’s _Mito_?”

* * *

“So, let me get this straight.” Mito sat before them on a raised dais, resplendent in a dark red kimono, flanked on either side by stern-faced shinobi. “You’re here to discuss a… coalition?”

“In a manner of speaking,” Hashirama replied. He had dragged Madara to the guest rooms, just long enough for them to trade notes, then dragged him down to Mito’s imposing compound.

Madara was sitting on a woven mat beside him, holding a small cup of tea.

“Mostly,” Hashirama continued, “I wanted to come here in-person to discuss the possibility of a long-term allegiance between our clans. Something more concrete than our previous relations. I felt like it would be best if I came in person to express my sincerity in this matter.”

Something like resignation settled on Mito’s face as she straightened her shoulders. “Speak, then,” she said.

“Well, that’s pretty much all there is to it,” Hashirama said. “I want to propose a contracted allegiance between our clans that would allow for free movement of people and information across our borders, specifically with regards to this _other_ idea I have – but that can wait until we’ve sorted out the actual initial negotiations.”

“And what _form_ will this contracted allegiance take?” Mito asked.

Hashirama glanced blankly at Madara. He looked as nonplussed as Hashirama felt and took a sip of tea.

“A… piece of paper, I assume?” Hashirama said questioningly.

“So, you’re not here to propose to Mito-sama, then?” one of the attendants called from the wings.

Madara choked.

“I – no? I wasn’t – that’s not _necessary_ , is it? Is it?” Hashirama, extremely flustered, directed the last question at Mito, whose face was flushed bright red behind her hands.

“No, Senju-dono, that is _not_ necessary,” she said firmly, composing herself. Her hands agitatedly smoothed her kimono over her knees. “This news actually comes as a small relief, if you will forgive my saying so. I would ask that the onlookers _not_ interrupt these proceedings, however.” Mito shot a stern glare at the attendant, who looked embarrassed.

Hashirama could see Madara’s shoulders shaking with the effort not to laugh. He ignored him.

“Uzumaki-dono, my proposed alliance would be one of mutual self-interest, based on the longstanding relationship already extant between our families,” Hashirama said, forging ahead. “Which brings me to my second proposal: I want to create a village.”

Mito tilted her head, the tags bumping against her cheek. “A village. Like Uzushio? What does this have to do with us?”

“Similar to Uzushio,” Hashirama confirmed. “In fact, the thought hadn’t even crystallized in my mind before I came here, but seeing this place made it clear. I want to build a village in the land of fire, where all the surrounding clans can live together in peace, and children can grow to adults without having to bathe in blood in the process.”

“I see. Earlier, you mentioned you wanted Uchiha-san to be present for these negotiations. How does this proposal concern him?”

“Uzumaki-dono, I would propose that Uchiha Madara be the one to lead this village.”

Madara’s head whipped around to stare at Hashirama. “ _What_?”

Mito seemed unsurprised at this. “I take it you were not informed of this, Uchiha-san?”

Madara glowered at Hashirama with piercing eyes.

“The Senju clan has already allied itself with the Hagoromo,” Hashirama continued, steadfastly ignoring Madara’s glare. “And joining us as we build this village would provide the Uzumaki clan with access to resources in the Land of Fire, as well as the protection of the Senju clan and its allies.”

“My clan is home to the Land of Whirlpools, not Fire,” Mito said. “You have seen our village for yourself, Senju-dono. What could you offer us that we have not already built here?”

“Numbers,” Hashirama said. “The Uzumaki clan has made its home into a prosperous haven, it is true. But you are alone here. The Land of Water has aggressed you before; if their full attention was to turn on the island, what recourse could you have if they launched a full attack?”

“So, this offer is simply out of neighborly concern?” The skepticism was clear in Mito’s voice. “What does the Senju clan gain from this alliance?”

“Well, fruit, I guess? _Ow_!”

Madara had smacked Hashirama on the back of the head. He turned back to Mito and said, “The Uzumaki clan would be an asset to the Senju for the same reason the Senju would be an asset to you, Uzumaki-san.” The shinobi to Mito’s right narrowed his eyes at Madara’s impropriety. “There is strength in numbers. And even if your clan stays here, if a few chose to reside in our village, that would be boon enough. Your clan’s sealing techniques are renown throughout the shinobi world.”

“I was about to say that,” Hashirama griped, rubbing the back of his head ruefully. He dipped his head towards Mito, who looked amused. “It’s as he says, Uzumaki-dono. Your clan’s sealing techniques are the only thing that’s ever broken my hold on the _mokuton_ – if it can do that, it would be a formidable asset to bring into our village.”

“Then let us discuss this other matter you have raised,” Mito said. “The question of Uchiha Madara, and the proposed leadership of the village.”

“Yes, let us discuss it, Hashirama,” Madara added darkly. “That’s the sort of thing you _ask_ before you announce it at a diplomatic gathering. What if I don’t want the job?”

“… Don’t you?” Hashirama said.

“I didn’t say that. But you didn’t _ask_.”

“Why choose Uchiha Madara?” Mito pressed. “What qualifications does he have to lead this proposed village of yours?”

“Uchiha Madara is a shinobi of immense power and skill,” Hashirama said. “Not only that, he is as dedicated to the idea of peace as I am. He was instrumental in bringing the Hagoromo to agree to an alliance, and he will be able to communicate with the Uchiha when that time arrives.”

Madara stood quickly, limbs trembling in outrage. “Be very careful of what you promises you make for me, Hashirama,” he hissed.

“Has he not broken ties with his clan?” Mito demanded. “What use could he be in negotiating with the Uchiha?”

“I wouldn’t discount him or the Uchiha so quickly,” Hashirama said. He ignored Madara. “Uzumaki-dono, with all due respect, I personally can attest to Uchiha Madara’s skill and character. If this village is to succeed, it will need strength. Whoever the leader is, they will need to be someone who will not break under pressure; it must be someone who can stand up to the daimyo, to any clan leader, and fight on behalf of the people he protects, even if it kills him.” Hashirama’s voice rang out through the chamber. “Uchiha Madara is such a person. He is foundational to the concept of this village itself; it is through his own words that I come to you, just as I went to the Hagoromo, and just as I will go to the Uchiha. I have never met anyone as suited to lead the village as he.”

Madara was still standing. Hashirama couldn’t see his face, but he could see Mito – she looked a little surprised, her eyebrows high on her forehead.

“Well,” she said. “I can see, now, why marriage was the last thing on your mind.”

Madara turned and walked out of the chamber among an eruption of whispers.

“Although, if you really are dead-set on making him the leader, you might want to work on his interpersonal skills,” Mito mused. “This is certainly an… interesting proposal, Senju-dono. I am surprised Senju Butsuma would send you here with such an offer.”

“Oh, no. My father doesn’t know why I’m here.”

“… _What_?”


	14. A Celebration

In the end, the Uzumaki did not accept the proposal. Mito explained, very calmly, that such a thing could not be negotiated without the full backing of the Senju clan leader. She told Hashirama to “come back in a few years once you’ve taken his place” and that they would “talk about it when the time came,” to which Hashirama smiled and nodded, silently bemoaning the fact that he hadn’t just _lied_.

Mito did, however, corner Hashirama as he left the meeting chamber, shooing away the attendants that attempted to follow her. “Hashirama,” she said urgently. “We need to talk. Come with me.”

Hashirama, concerned, followed her down a long hallway that ended in a small door. It seemed to open into some kind of study – it was full to the brim of sealing scrolls, calligraphy, and paintings. Several unfinished works were strewn haphazardly over a long, low desk. Hashirama could see brushes ranging from the width of his pinky to the breadth of his wrist hanging from intricately carved racks. Dried dishes of ink were jammed into every available nook and cranny. It was, simply, a mess.

“Please excuse the clutter,” Mito said, kicking aside a pile of papers to reveal a small cushion. She pointed at it and said, “Sit.”

Hashirama sat.

Mito made her way around the desk and carefully arranged her red kimono as she lowered herself behind it. She folded her hands primly on the desktop, looked up at Hashirama, drew in a breath – and promptly burst out laughing.

Hashirama frowned.

“Hahahaha – I’m – oh no, I’m so sorry,” she giggled, wiping away a tear. “You’re – you’re not even here with your father’s permission? I could barely contain myself when I heard that. What are you _doing,_ Hashirama? No wonder Uchiha Madara seemed so upset, I couldn’t _imagine_ –”

“Alright, alright.” Hashirama crossed his arms. He wasn’t pouting. He _wasn’t_. “I heard you the first time. I should’ve gotten his approval first. But things were… well, this seemed easier. It’s not like he’ll say _no_.”

“Hashirama, I get that, I really do, but you have to look at it from my perspective!” Mito was calmer, now, and fanned herself lightly with one hand. “I can’t just go around striking deals with whatever yokel walks through my door.”

“ _Yokel?_ ”

“No offense,” she said blithely. “Oh, lord, I’m so relieved you’re not here to ask me to marry you. No offense! Again!” she added hurriedly as Hashirama threw up his hands. “It’s just – I would’ve had to turn you down _regardless_ , given the state of things. Even as awkward as this whole experience has been, it hasn’t been as bad as that.”

“I would make a good husband!” Hashirama said. “Wait, what am I saying? I don’t want to marry you.”

“Oh, I could tell,” Mito said, her eyes glittering. The dimples in her cheeks deepened. “So, what exactly is going on, there?”

“What?” Hashirama asked blankly. “What’s going on where?”

“Between you and Uchiha Madara. We’re friends now, Hashirama, so spill the beans.”

“There are no beans,” Hashirama said crossly. “And why do you get to decide when we’re friends or not?”

“Don’t you want to be friends?” Mito reached under the desk and pulled out a bottle.

“Of course – no, you can’t trick me. I know what you’re doing.”

“I,” Mito said as she set several small cups down on the table. “Am drinking.”

“It’s barely dark outside!”

“Yes, but this is a special occasion. We just agreed to permanent diplomatic relations with a major clan! This is exciting!”

“You _agreed_? I thought you said –”

“To wait until you take over from your father?” Mito laughed again as she poured three cups of something clear and foul-smelling. “Of course, that’s what I said. But that’s just a formality, Hashirama. My people are already going to work drafting up the long-term agreement. By the time you _do_ take over, it’ll be ready to be finalized!”

There was a polite knock on the door. “Mito-sama,” came a small voice. “We brought him.”

“Send him in!” Mito called.

The door opened and Uchiha Madara stepped inside. He seemed to have calmed down somewhat from the meeting, but as his eyes swept between Hashirama and Mito, and the alcohol between them, his countenance grew dark again.

“Uchiha Madara!” Mito said. “We were never properly introduced. I am Uzumaki Mito.”

“I know who you are,” Madara said, unmoving.

“Then come sit down! There’s a cushion next to Hashirama under those scrolls.”

Madara’s eyes narrowed further at her casual use of Hashirama’s name. Hashirama shook the cushion free and patted it invitingly. Like a man mounting the gallows, Madara marched over and sat, back ramrod straight, arms folded over his chest.

Mito pushed the bowls towards them and raised her own. “To the village!”

Madara waited until she’d downed her own drink before raising his.

“So, Hashirama,” Mito said with a gasp, her eyes watering slightly. “You never answered my question.”

Madara tipped his bowl back as Hashirama, coughing slightly, said, “What question?”

Mito grinned like a feral cat as she poured them another round. “What _exactly_ is going on, here?”

Hashirama flushed a dull red as Madara lowered his cup. “Um,” he said.

“I was just telling him, Madara,” Mito continued abruptly, handing him another cup of liquor. “It’s a good thing he isn’t here to propose, because that would’ve been embarrassing for everyone! Right?”

“I’m sure I have no idea what you mean, _Mito_ ,” Madara said. He accepted the cup anyway. “But the concept of Hashirama trying to propose to _anyone_ is ridiculous enough as it is.”

“He’s not nearly charismatic enough for it. Imagine, him trying to woo someone!”

“He’ll go off on some tangent about the beauty of nature or his plans for world peace,” Madara said. He already seemed more at ease – clearly, picking on Hashirama was familiar territory. “That is, assuming whoever it is was able to get past his hair and clothes, first.”

“My hair _and_ clothes are fine!” Hashirama protested.

“God, you should’ve heard him try to explain you to my guards yesterday – he almost managed to fit his whole leg in his mouth. It was so awkward!” Mito let out a laugh, covering her mouth with her free hand.

“Oh, really? What did you tell them about me, Hashirama?” Madara asked, looking at him with a dark gleam in his eye.

Hashirama looked back and forth between Mito and Madara, feeling very outnumbered.

“He said you’ve never hurt him,” Mito said conspiratorially with a matching glitter in her eyes. “Except when he _wants_ you to, of course.”

“I did _not_ say that –”

“That sounds about right,” Madara said. He downed his liquor and skidded the cup back over the desk to Mito.

“It all makes a lot more sense, in retrospect,” Mito said as she refilled both their cups. “Your defection to the Senju, that is.”

It was like the breath had been sucked out of the room. Hashirama and Madara looked at each other. Should they tell her? Did she need to know that Uchiha Madara hadn’t come to them to defect?

Madara’s eyes lowered, and he gave the barest shake of his head. The message was clear: let her keep thinking like this. She didn’t need to know about Izuna.

Mito, oblivious, poured them all another round. “Who should we toast next?” She asked, musing. “Mitsuaki, for making this meeting possible?”

Hashirama didn’t hear Madara’s response but downed his cup anyway.

The night began to pass in a blur after that. Hashirama had vague memories of someone challenging him to an arm-wrestling match –

– then Mito asking for a demonstration of Madara’s _katon_ techniques, which led to them going to the roof –

– triggering one of the seals covering the volcano when the fireball ripped through the barrier, summoning a giant rainstorm –

– Hashirama falling off the roof –

– Madara dragging him back to the guest house as Mito called off the storm–

– and there they were, Hashirama laughing as Madara tried to evacuate himself out of his sodden mantle, only to trip and collapse into a wet heap on the tatami mats in the bedroom.

“You look – pff, hahaha – you look like a drowned _cat_ ,” Hashirama giggled, crawling over to help him pull the dense cloth over his head.

“ _You_ look like a – _you_ – you look bad,” Madara slurred angrily. He threw the mantle across the room with enough force to knock one of the hanging scrolls off the wall. He scowled at Hashirama. “Come on, take off your shirt, you’re going to get sick –”

“You just want to see me shirtless,” Hashirama said, laughing.

“No!” Madara said. Was he _blushing_?

“You’re _blushing_!” Hashirama said. He scrambled after Madara and grabbed his face to get a better look. “You _are_!”

“Fine! Get a cold!” Madara snapped shoving at Hashirama. “Get sick and die! See if I care!”

“You _doooo_ ,” Hashirama crooned. He wrapped his arms around Madara, who shrieked at the sudden cold from his wet clothes.

“No! You don’t get to hug me! Get off!” Madara squirmed uselessly in his grip. Hashirama realized he was pinning his legs to the floor and laughed in delight.

“You’re trapped!” he teased. They were drunk – he knew _he_ was drunk; he was having too much fun to be sober – but even drunk, Madara was so prickly! Hashirama sighed theatrically, said, “Would _this_ help?” and shucked off his wet shirt.

Madara’s eyes went as wide as dinner plates.

Hashirama was already warmer without the sodden clothes weighing him down, and quickly reclaimed his hold around Madara’s torso before he could wriggle away. “I’m so happy you’re here,” Hashirama sighed, burying his face in his scarred chest. “I love you so, so much, and you’re gonna be so great as the leader of the village, and everyone else is gonna love you, too, because I’m gonna _make_ them see how great you are –”

“Stop,” Madara said weakly, pushing on Hashirama’s shoulders.

Hashirama just clung tighter. “I love you more than air, I love you more than – than – Madara, I love you more than _trees_ –”

“You’re too drunk to have this conversation, and I’m not drunk _enough_ ,” Madara hissed. He writhed in Hashirama’s grip, and he tightened it in response – but Madara was just reaching over to the blanket, discarded since that morning, and pulled it over the both of them.

“Will you be here in the morning?” Hashirama asked, with sudden alarm.

“You hypocrite,” Madara said. He snaked down, deeper under the blanket, until he and Hashirama were face to face, lying on the rough tatami mat. “Of course, I’ll be here, Hashirama. Will _you_?”

“Of course,” Hashirama said. He’d already forgotten what they were talking about. He buried his face in the curve of Madara’s neck and was on the cusp of falling asleep when he asked, in a barely audible voice, “Why _are_ you still here, Madara?”

Madara stiffened.

“You know I’m not going to kill you.” Hashirama was so close his mouth brushed Madara’s clavicle as he spoke. “So why haven’t you left?”

“I told you a week ago,” Madara said. “I said I would stay at your side. Weren’t you listening?”

“Do you still want to die?” Hashirama tilted his face upwards slightly.

Madara’s jaw brushed his temple as he spoke. His voice was a ragged whisper. “I don’t know,” he said. “Shouldn’t I? Wouldn’t it be better? Wouldn’t it be what I deserve?”

Hashirama listened to him breathe and felt his lungs expand where their chests pressed together. “Tell me about Izuna,” he said.

“Where should I start?” Madara asked.

“Anywhere,” Hashirama said. “Tell me something he did to make you laugh. Tell me something he did to make you cry.”

So Madara did. Hashirama drifted to sleep on the steady rumble of his voice and pretended he couldn’t see the tear tracks glistening in the faint light.


	15. A Distraction

Hashirama woke up feeling like a corpse. The light was blindingly bright, and he covered his eyes with a groan, rolling away from it – and directly into a wall of warm skin. He froze, eyes still closed, and realized with no small relief that he was still wearing pants. His head was _pounding_. Hashirama cracked open his eyes.

Uchiha Madara was lying on the ground next to him, equally shirtless, his hair spread out over the floor like an oil spill. There was dried spit on his face.

“Hey,” Hashirama croaked, batting ineffectually at Madara’s arm with the back of his hand. “Madara. Wake up.”

Madara’s eyes opened in a bare sliver and were immediately screwed shut again as he let out a noise like a kicked dog.

“I think,” Hashirama said, rolling back onto his back. “We might’ve… had too much to drink.”

“Fuck you,” Madara groaned. “I’m so thirsty.”

“Me too,” Hashirama squinted across the room. “Why are our clothes…”

“Wet,” Madara grunted. “Remember?” Then, with considerable effort, Madara sat upright. He turned green almost immediately and scrambled out of the room.

Hashirama put his head back down and closed his eyes.

* * *

When Hashirama awoke next, it was because someone had thrown a wadded-up bundle of cloth in his face.

“Get dressed,” Madara said.

Hashirama looked at him blearily. He looked much better. Or maybe it was just because he’d washed his face? Either way, Madara stood in the doorway, tapping his foot impatiently as Hashirama fumbled with his now-dry shirt.

Hashirama sat up, rubbing his eyes. Judging from the light outside, he’d slept for another hour or so. Long enough for his headache to go away, at any rate. Thanks, healing chakra!

Hashirama smiled sunnily at Madara, who scowled fiercely in response. “No,” Madara said. “You do _not_ get to be immune to hangovers. God _damnit_. This isn’t _fair_.”

“We should start heading back to my family,” Hashirama said as he stood, pulling the shirt over his head. “We’ve intruded on Mito’s hospitality long enough.”

“ _You’ve_ intruded,” Madara said. “I’ve barely been here a day.”

“Yes, but didn’t you break the sky, or something? Last night?”

“No, I just triggered a defense mechanism,” Madara snapped, embarrassed. “One that Mito _forgot_ to tell us about.”

“Still,” Hashirama said, chuckling. “Do you remember the look on her face?”

“No,” Madara said primly. He turned and swept out of the room, slamming the door behind him.

Hashirama rolled his eyes and immediately reopened it to follow him outside.

The sun was hot. Summer was approaching fast, and the heat fell over Uzushio like a blanket.

There was an attendant waiting for them outside the door to the guesthouse, dressed in a pale green yukata and holding a slender scroll. She bowed as Hashirama descended the short stairs.

“Senju-sama. Uchiha-san,” she said. She extended her hands, offering the scroll to Hashirama, who took it with bemusement. “Mito-sama suggested that the Senju clan might appreciate a… concrete reassurance of our dedication to Senju-sama’s cause.”

“A concrete… _what_?” Madara asked, rubbing the bridge of his nose. Clearly, his headache still hadn’t gone away. Hashirama felt a small surge of sympathy for him as he unrolled the paper.

“Oh, this is great,” Hashirama said, eyes scanning the neatly drawn characters. It was a simple message of friendship and an offer to open diplomatic channels, signed by Uzumaki Mito. “Please convey our thanks to Uzumaki-dono. Also, can someone help us navigate through the tunnels? We do need to return to our clan soon.”

“Of course, Senju-sama.” The attendant bowed crisply and turned to walk back towards the main house.

Hashirama bent slightly and looked at Madara with pitying eyes. “You really don’t react well to alcohol, do you?”

“Not all of us have healing powers, Hashirama,” Madara bit out.

“Mmhmm,” Hashirama said, raising his hands to rest on either side of his head. “Luckily, you do have me around.” Chakra flowed between his palms, and Hashirama could swear he saw Madara sag slightly in relief. Hashirama let his hands drop and folded his arms, grinning infuriatingly. “You’re welcome.”

Hashirama was being smug. He knew. But it was worth it to watch Madara get flustered in response.

“Congratulations,” Madara said, sharply turning down the path. “You’ve somehow become an even _bigger_ prick as an adult.”

“Hey, how does healing you make me a prick?!”

“You managed it, somehow.”

They cut through the market, under the verdant overhangs of the nearby buildings, and began the short climb towards the wall of the crater. Hashirama looked out wistfully back towards the village as an Uzumaki shinobi opened the rock face. He was going to miss this place!

Madara went ahead of him in the tunnels. Hashirama smiled at him, even though no one could see it. He was going to miss the vibrant city in the Land of Whirlpools, but hopefully, in time, he and Madara would build a village that could rival even Uzushio.

The shinobi didn’t follow them as they entered the small clearing through the wooden door. Madara stopped short, withdrawing a short scroll from his obi.

“What’s that?” Hashirama asked, coming up beside him.

“A faster way home than walking,” Madara said, biting his thumb.

He unfurled the scroll and drew the bright cherry-red blood down the spidery writing in one smooth motion. There was an explosion of wind and smoke, and when Hashirama’s vision cleared, a large red bird filled the clearing. Its claws sank deep into the sandy soil, and its head easily cleared the tops of the mangrove trees. There were thick, black markings around its eyes.

“Hello, Garuda,” Madara said.

“Little thing,” Garuda responded, tilting its head to stare down at the two of them.

“Can you give us a ride back to the Senju camp?” Madara asked. “Tobimaru won’t be big enough, this time, considering my… extra luggage.”

 _Extra luggage_. Hashirama heaved a sigh.

“Fine,” Garuda said. It ruffled its feathers and settled lower into the clearing.

Madara leapt with a small surge of chakra, climbing onto the spot between the bird’s wings with practiced ease. He looked down at Hashirama expectantly.

“… You want to ride a giant bird back home.”

“Yes? Get on.”

Hashirama eyed Garuda’s massive talons with suspicion. It wasn’t that he had a problem with birds – it was that birds, more often than not, had a problem with _him_.

“… Hashirama,” Madara said in an exasperated voice. “Don’t tell me you’re actually scared of Garuda.”

“I’m not scared!” Hashirama said. “I just – don’t want to make it mad.”

“I _am_ getting a little impatient,” Garuda added unhelpfully. It ruffled its feathers again. “Little thing, should I just pick it up?”

“No, no. I’ll take care of it,” Madara said with an air of long-suffering. He slid back down the bird’s feathers. Before Hashirama could react, he roped one arm around Hashirama’s torso, one under his legs, and suddenly, with a rush of air, Hashirama was sitting sideways on top of the giant red hawk.

He let out a sound not unlike a squawk and clutched at the front of Madara’s mantle.

Madara, sitting just behind him, laughed at him. “You’re such a _child_ , Hashirama. You can sit comfortably in a tree a hundred meters high, but a little bird like Garuda scares you? Ridiculous.”

“Call me little again, little thing,” Garuda’s voice rumbled out from beneath them. “I dare you.” It opened its wings, and in one powerful motion, they were airborne.

“Oh, I hate this,” Hashirama said, face completely drained of color. He shamelessly clung to Madara’s chest and stared fixedly at the horizon line. “I hate this, I hate this, I hate this…”

“I, for one, am having a great time,” Madara said, grinning ear-to-ear. He leaned forward and dug a hand into Garuda’s feathers. His other arm, purely by coincidence, wrapped around Hashirama. Their hair whipped around them as Garuda made a steep banking turn towards the mainland.

“Why did the Uchiha clan have to specialize in _birds_ ,” Hashirama said in a strong, manly voice.

Madara let out a wild cackle as Garuda gained height, powerful wing beats driving them forward at a punishing speed. “We specialize in cats, too,” he said. He almost had to shout over the wind.

“Why couldn’t we ride a giant _cat_ back to the mainland?!” Hashirama yelled.

“Because _you_ wanted to go to the Land of _Whirlpools_ , idiot!”

Hashirama grumbled. He hoped his hair was getting in Madara’s eyes.

The sun was still blazing overhead, but in the constant chill of the wind Hashirama almost felt a sense of equilibrium. Even going as fast as they were, it would take them hours to reach the Senju encampment.

Hashirama pulled on Madara’s mantle until he could speak directly into his ear. “What should we call the village?”

“You’re thinking way too far ahead,” Madara said, turning his face against the wind. “There’s still no guarantee any of this will work, remember?”

“It will,” Hashirama said firmly. “Start thinking of a name now! It needs to be a good one – something impressive! Like the Great Shinobi Village of A Hundred Fiery Souls or – or –”

“That doesn’t sound impressive, that sounds lame!” Madara said.

“That’s why you’re going to name it!”

Hashirama felt the hot puff of air against his ear as Madara laughed. It was lost in the roar of the wind.

Slowly, the forests rose beneath them, and the ground splintered into the crags and bluffs of the Land of Fire. Garuda powered onwards, broad wings stretching out around them like sails. The sun soared overhead, and by the time they began to near the Senju encampment, it had just begun to skirt the tops of the trees, turning the sky into a haze of orange and purple.

Hashirama, foolishly, assumed Madara was going to direct Garuda to touch down some distance away from the encampment, so as to avoid making a scene. Madara, of course, did no such thing. On his order, Garuda made a beeline directly for the open area outside of the clan leaders house and landed in a flurry of feathers and beating wings.

“Butsuma!” Madara roared, swinging down from the bird like it was a large horse. “I’ve brought your errant son back to you again!”

Hashirama buried his face in his hands and took a deep breath before sliding off of Garuda’s back. The giant bird rustled its wings once more before vanishing with a _bang_.

“You’re a little late, Uchiha-san,” said an old woman near the door to Butsuma’s house. Hashirama dimly recalled her name was Taeko – another one of his great aunts. She was running a long, thin needle through a banner. “Butsuma-sama’s already gone to join the fighting.”

“There’s an attack? Where?” Hashirama asked.

Taeko gestured towards the west. “Close to the river,” she said. “They’ve been out there for a few hours, now.”

Hashirama made to go join them, but Madara snagged him by the wrist. “This is an opportunity,” he said, quietly, dark eyes boring into Hashirama. “If the clan’s distracted fighting the Senju, they’ve probably left their shrines unguarded.”

“What’s in the shrines?” Hashirama asked blankly.

“Information,” Madara said. His voice was deadly serious. “You can go join this battle, but I’ll be going to each of my family’s shrines to try and build my case. I need you to buy me time. Keep them entrenched for as long as you can.”

Hashirama wanted to ask what he meant by ‘case,’ but just nodded, instead. “I’ll keep them busy,” he said, grasping Madara firmly on the arm.

Madara opened his mouth like he was going to say something else, but after a moment of hesitation, simply closed it and nodded sharply. He was gone in a flash of chakra, the wind sending up a flurry of leaves.

“He is an interesting boy, isn’t he?” Taeko said idly, rethreading the needle. “He certainly gave Butsuma-sama a lot to think about the other night.”

Hashirama nodded at her as he leapt into the trees. She waved a hand at his disappearing back.

It was refreshing to sprint through trees that could actually hold his weight, Hashirama reflected as he flew towards the river.

Hashirama arrived at the river quickly, landing on a tree branch that stretched over the narrow expanse of water. The battlefield was smaller than he expected – but without his _mokuton_ to ravage the landscape, he supposed the fighting didn’t need to be as spread out as he was used to. The Uchiha clan clashed with the Senju down the length of the stream, bodies falling into the water and seeping dull red into the current. Hashirama wondered, briefly, if the stones he and Madara exchanged were still down there, somewhere.

He put his hands together, drew in a long breath, and _pulled_. They were in the heart of the Land of Fire; the trees in this area were old growth, and the ground was riddled with roots that stretched down and down. It was almost easy to call them, to feel the tug of the chakra slipping through the vacuous spaces in their cells, to bend them and twist them as if they’d grown this way for centuries.

The clans noticed immediately, of course. How could they not? The ground underneath them began to rupture and shake as thick wooden barriers exploded out of the rocks underfoot.

“Hashirama!” came a joyful cry. It carried throughout the Senju shinobi, who began to regroup on the riverbank. At least they were happy to see him!

Hashirama focused on the dim pulses of life as the Uchiha flitted away, through the trees. His goal wasn’t death, but containment – but things as old as these woods took little notice of the small lives of humans that might get caught in the undergrowth. It would be too easy to let it go out of control and end up killing more Uchiha than he intended. Hashirama pulled, and twisted, and blocked off their routes of escape. He could feel the mounting frustration in their movements as the Uchiha began to realize they were becoming trapped in the valley.

His clan began to advance, kunai bared, ready to take advantage of their enemy’s misfortune. Hashirama groaned audibly and split his concentration – he didn’t want them to _slaughter_ each other! He just needed to keep them _here_. Roots tangled in his clansmen’s path, branches snagged tightly at their clothes, thick bushes of briar erupted in front of them. He could hear their angry shouts even from his vantage position, but he didn’t relent.

Slowly, surely, the Uchiha were penned in, surrounded by a thick wall of vibrant green. They were too close together to use their _katon_ , and the wood was green and young. His clan prowled around the perimeter like wolves, probing for weaknesses in the defense. Hashirama twisted the woods around them, disorienting and confusing their sense of direction. It was almost funny – Madara had said to keep them distracted, but he was having more trouble with his own family than the Uchiha!

The tree branch he was standing on shuddered as another figure landed on it, sword bared.

“Anija,” said Tobirama. “What are you doing?”

“Tobirama!” Hashirama exclaimed. “It’s been so long! How are you, little brother? You look like you survived your mystery mission!”

“ _Anija_ ,” Tobirama repeated, stepping forward. “ _What_ are you _doing_?”

The smile fell from Hashirama’s face. He hadn’t looked away from the battlefield, hands still clasped in the sign of the serpent, forest writhing beneath him. “What does it look like, Tobirama?” he said, softly.

“It _looks_ like you’re interfering with a battle,” Tobirama bit out through gritted teeth. “But I know that can’t be the case, because you haven’t _actually_ gone rogue. Have you, Hashirama?”

“Is Butsuma down there?” Hashirama asked.

“Yes,” Tobirama said. He was staring at Hashirama through narrowed eyes. “You’re taking great pains to avoid killing anyone, it seems.”

“Wow, you can tell?” Hashirama said. “That’s impressive, little brother! I guess that’s what it means to be a sensor, though –”

“The battle was going in our favor,” Tobirama said. “The Uchiha are becoming desperate, now that they’re leaderless. We did not need your interference.”

“Speaking of,” Hashirama said. He cast a sideways glance at Tobirama through the dying light. “What happened to Uchiha Tajima?”

“Release your hold on this forest and I’ll tell you.”

“Then I’ll wait to hear it from someone else.”

“ _Anija!_ ” Tobirama hissed. His grip trembled on his sword.

“Why are you getting so worked up?” Hashirama said. “No one’s being hurt. I’m just… making them take a break. Well,” he paused, staring down into the tangle around the stream. “I think Kaito just fell into a briar patch. But there’s no _serious_ injuries.”

“Butsuma is going to make me clan leader,” Tobirama said flatly. “He hasn’t said anything, but I know. It’s because of _this_ , Hashirama. It’s because you can’t be trusted to do what’s best for the clan.”

“I _am_ doing what’s best for the clan!” Hashirama said.

“ _No, you’re not!”_ Tobirama roared. “Look at this! You’re not doing what’s best for our family, you’re doing what’s best for _Uchiha Madara_. You think I can’t tell? You think I don’t _know_?”

“I don’t think you know very much at all, Tobirama,” Hashirama said coldly.

The punch broke his hold on the _mokuton_ and sent him flying out of the tree. Hashirama drew in a sharp breath and landed, shoes clinging to the bark of another weathered trunk, staring, enraged, at his little brother.

“Draw your sword, Hashirama,” Tobirama’s voice was like ice.

“Are you going to try to kill me, little brother? For what crime?”

“For betraying your family, anija. You’ve been gone for days, and as soon as we go to battle you show up – only to aid our enemies? I don’t know what purpose your interference tonight served, but I _know_ it wasn’t for the good of the clan. _Draw. Your._ _Sword._ ”

Hashirama spat out a mouthful of blood. He’d bitten the inside of his cheek. “I don’t think so, Tobirama. Aren’t you supposed to be the sensible one? Aren’t you the realist, between the two of us?”

Tobirama lunged. Hashirama leapt aside, and the bark of the tree shattered into a thousand splinters.

“You can’t think you’ll win against me,” Hashirama snarled.

“I don’t have to win,” Tobirama said. “I just have to keep you distracted so our father can finish the job.”

The sound of cracking wood echoed out of the valley. The Senju clan had begun to tear into the green walls around the Uchiha – and from the sound of it, the Uchiha had begun to do the same from the inside.

“Why are you so desperate to kill each other?!” Hashirama said, dodging another swing of his brother’s blade. “What good will it do?!”

“Why is this even a question, for you?!” Tobirama returned. He leapt backwards, flinging a handful of shuriken as he did so. They thudded into solid wood and Hashirama soared overhead, hands flying through signs.

“Why _isn’t_ it a question for you, little brother? When did devotion for our father turn into such unthinking obedience?”

“When Itama died!” Tobirama roared. “When Kawarama died! When _they_ killed them!” His hand shot out, pointing towards the tangled thicket where the Uchiha clan sat, trapped.

Hashirama finished his signs. The _mokuton_ sang and the wood around them came to life, snapping and snagging at Tobirama’s armor. Branches tangled around his brother’s arms, forcing the sword from his hands, twining between his fingers to prevent him from making any seals. Hashirama breathed, and slowly, inexorably, Tobirama was forced to his knees against the wooden bough.

“What of their brothers, Tobirama?” Hashirama said, dropping to his knees. “What happened to Uchiha Tajima?”

Tobirama stared at him coldly. “You can’t feign incompetence anymore, Hashirama,” he said. “If these Uchiha escape this battle alive, it will be because you _let_ them.”

“I will let them,” Hashirama said. “How am I supposed to make peace with them if they’re all dead?”

Tobirama just shook his head, letting his chin fall towards his chest.

Hashirama felt tired. He cocked his head and surveyed his brother with heavy eyes. “Why did you help me, before?”

Tobirama said nothing.

“You convinced our father not to kill Madara. You let him escape, when I was captured by the Uchiha. You were the one who suggested bringing him into the clan,” Hashirama’s voice carried over the sounds of the battle below, which had begun again with new intensity. “Why do any of it if you thought it would end up like this?”

The sky was fully dark now. The only illumination was cast from the stars overhead and the occasional _katon_ that ripped through the valley below.

“Because, anija,” Tobirama said hollowly. “You’re my older brother. And, in the end, I still thought you would choose us over him.”

“I didn’t _choose_ anyone over anything, Tobirama!” Hashirama surged forward and grabbed Tobirama’s shoulder. He would’ve shaken him if not for the thick, twisting branches holding him in place. “I love our family! I love our father! I love _you,_ little brother, even for all we disagree –”

“But you love him more,” Tobirama said flatly.

“ _It’s not about Madara_!” Hashirama hissed. “Do you know what I’ve been doing, Tobirama? Do you know where I’ve been, beyond ‘interfering’ with our father’s plans?”

“No,” Tobirama said, raising his head to stare at Hashirama with dead eyes. “Where _have_ you been, anija? Where have you been hiding, while our clan has gone to war?”

“I’ve been making allies,” Hashirama said. He pulled out the small scroll given to him by the Uzumaki and tucked it into Tobirama’s breastplate. “I’ve been eliminating threats, Tobirama, something that you should understand well. I’ve been working towards the creation of a village, where we can all live in peace together, instead of spending our nights poisoning rivers with the blood of children.”

“A village where we can all live in peace,” Tobirama repeated flatly. “Anija, have you lost your mind?”

“Not yet,” Hashirama said. He stood up. “Since you’ll be the new clan leader, I would humbly offer that scroll for your consideration. I’ll release you when this battle is over.” Hashirama paused, and turned, chewing his tongue as he said, “Goodbye, little brother.” He stepped away and drew closer to the battleground.

This time, when he ripped trees out of the ground between the warring clans, there were no interruptions. Hashirama kept the Senju and the Uchiha contained within a maze of green for hours, shifting the course of the river itself as the mountains around them collapsed into verdant growth. No matter how sharp the Senju blades were that hacked through the greenery, no matter how hot the fires burned around the Uchiha – Hashirama called forth eons of forest. He pulled the wood from the bones of the earth itself and wove them into a net that spanned the breadth of the valley.

It was only when the sun began to rise over the far horizon that a small sparrow with red eyes landed on Hashirama’s shoulder, and in a deep, familiar voice, said, “I have what I need. You can let them all go.”


	16. A Defense

Neither of them returned to the Senju encampment. They didn’t need to discuss it; by some unknowable sign, Madara and Hashirama met in the deep forest. The air had begun to warm as the morning hours slipped past. Hashirama saw Madara standing in the shade of thick tree trunk, rereading a torn piece of paper. He rolled it up and tucked it into his belt as Hashirama approached.

“How was the battle?” he asked, eyes sweeping over Hashirama’s shoulders and chest. “You didn’t get stabbed again, did you?”

“No,” Hashirama said. He still felt drained from his fight with Tobirama.

It must have shown on his face, because Madara took a step closer, tilting his head. “What happened?”

Hashirama forced his exhaustion away and gave him a smile. “Nothing terrible,” he said. “I’m just tired. Nobody died.”

“Nobody?”

“Not since I got there, anyway.”

“That’s impressive,” Madara said.

“What did you get from the shrines?” Hashirama asked, nodding at the roll of paper tucked in Madara’s belt.

Madara surveyed him with dark eyes for a minute, then shook his head. “I think you need to rest, first.”

“I’m –”

“– clearly dead on your feet and trying to change the subject,” Madara finished for him. He took Hashirama by the shoulders and steered him back the shade. “Sit, Hashirama. This’ll take some context to explain, anyway.”

Hashirama sank against the rough bark and looked at Madara listlessly. Madara pushed at him with the side of his shoe until Hashirama scooted sideways, then sat next to him, their shoulders pressed tightly together.

“Tell me what happened in the battle,” Madara said. “Don’t make me drag it out of you again. Just tell me.” His voice was low, and Hashirama found himself comforted, staring out into the dark green of the surrounding forest.

“… Tobirama.”

“Again?”

“Worse than last time.” Hashirama tilted his head back until it hit the bark with a _thud_. “Butsuma’s going to make him clan head. I think… we’re going to have a hard time convincing the Senju to join the village.”

Madara took a long, deep breath. “An unfortunate setback.” He tilted his head toward Hashirama, and he could see the brush of Madara’s eyelashes as he blinked. “Don’t take this the wrong way – but at least he’s still alive.”

“I’m sorry, Madara –”

“I said _don’t_ take it the wrong way, idiot.” Madara shoved him with his shoulder, but there was no force in it. “I wasn’t asking for pity. I’m telling you there’s hope. Tobirama lives. You’ll be able to reconnect with him someday, even if he says he’ll cut ties with you now.” Madara snorted. “He won’t resist for long. No one ever does.”

“I think Butsuma has finally given up all hope for me,” Hashirama said, dully. “I knew it was coming. I couldn’t expect him to be so lenient forever. But…”

There was a soft pressure low on his arm, where it draped over his leg. Hashirama looked down and saw Madara’s gloved hand lightly resting there, fingers wrapped loosely around his wrist.

“I told you, don’t give up hope yet,” Madara said quietly. He squeezed Hashirama’s wrist briefly and withdrew. “So,” he said, voice a little louder than before. “What do you know about the rites of succession in the Uchiha clan?”

“Um,” Hashirama said. His brain was still stuck on the gentle pressure of Madara’s hand on his wrist. “Not much.”

“Well, firstly, it’s determined by blood,” Madara said. “A lot like the Senju clan. If the clan leader has a child, there’s a strong preference for the eldest child to become the next clan leader. That responsibility passes from oldest to youngest in that generation, then down to the next, assuming any of them had children.”

“Okay. That is pretty much the way ours works, too.”

“Here’s the biggest difference, as far as I can tell – the Uchiha clan requires the approval of the council before anyone becomes clan leader.”

“… The council?”

“Yeah. It’s,” Madara waved his hand. “Old people, I guess? The clan elders. I’m not actually sure what the requirements are to be on the council, now that I think of it. I’m pretty sure they’re all the heads of their families. I think they have to have an awakened sharingan. There’s one woman who’s been on it forever – Nekobaa-sama.”

“Ne – _Nekobaa_ –?”

“Yes, don’t interrupt.”

Hashirama rolled his eyes and settled in deeper against the tree.

“The successors-to-be are vetted by the council. Other people, beyond just the clan leader’s children, can try to become the next clan leader, but they have to either be overwhelmingly popular, immensely powerful, or have some other reason that they’re the most appropriate person to lead the clan.”

“Well, that seems pretty simple,” Hashirama said, looking at the sliver of Madara’s face that he could see. “You’re Tajima’s eldest, and you’re overwhelmingly powerful.”

“I _was_ Tajima’s eldest,” Madara corrected. “I’m pretty sure I’m not considered ‘in the running’ anymore, since my… defection.”

“Oh,” Hashirama said. “So, what’s this have to do with the shrines?”

Madara pulled the paper out of his belt and unrolled it. It was covered in Madara’s dense, spiky writing – it seemed to be a list of names. “The shrines record our histories,” Madara said. “Old prophecies, tales of great conquests, stories of lines of succession. Things like that.” He shook the paper. “The council tends to favor those whose… circumstances align with past decisions made by previous councils.”

“You were looking for a _precedent_?” Hashirama laughed slightly. “This seems unnecessarily convoluted.”

“It wouldn’t have had to be convoluted if you hadn’t stuck your nose in it,” Madara said. “But yes. I was looking for instances where my situation aligned with that of previous clan leaders. I found more than I expected, honestly. My clan can be… dramatic.”

Hashirama stared at him flatly. “You don’t say?”

“Shut up.” Madara rolled the paper back into a tube. “This is just a precaution, anyway. There’s a chance they’ll see me throw in my claim and rally behind me without a qualm.” He paused, holding the paper. “Well, I mean. It’s not _going_ to happen, but it’s nice to think about.”

Hashirama wanted to kiss him. Hashirama wanted to kiss him so badly his chest ached with it. But he remembered kneeling on the floor of that small wooden shed, and hearing the words _I don’t feel the same_ come from Madara’s lips, and instead said, “When will the council gather to approve the next clan leader?”

“Normally, it would occur after the cremation and mourning periods have passed.” Madara said. He tucked away the roll of paper and moved to stand, brushing bits of dried bark off his mantle. “However, given how badly the fight against the Senju is going, I suspect they’ll try to replace him sooner, rather than later.” He offered a hand to Hashirama and helped pull him to his feet.

“Madara,” Hashirama said as he stood, still holding their clasped hands between them. “Thank you. I’m glad you’re here.”

Madara looked at him, mouth moving wordlessly for a second. “Hm,” was all he said before launching himself into the canopy.

Hashirama laughed, startled, and followed, chakra spiraling through his limbs as he ascended. “Where are we going?”

“If the council hasn’t made a decision yet, it’s probably from the lack of good candidates,” Madara said, leaping through the trees. “I’m not going to give them time to find one. You and I are going to go to their doorstep and force them to convene.”

“And they won’t try to kill us on the spot because…?”

“Because they won’t be able to _touch_ us, Hashirama.”

The trees passed in a blur. Hashirama followed the black streak of Madara’s hair as he plunged deeper into the forest.

They crossed back over the river, further upstream, where the bodies didn’t clog the waterway. They descended from the branches and walked, and walked, suppressing their chakra almost until it snapped, Hashirama’s skin trembling with the force of it. They came upon a stele in the road. The carved Uchiha fan was chipped and worn down, almost easy to miss in the dappled shadows of the trees. Madara gave it a bitter smile as he walked around it.

They were getting close. The Uchiha were more mobile than the Senju – they went wherever the work was, after all, and weren’t so adept at farming as to bother staking claim to territory. When they travelled, though, they tended to favor the same areas in which to erect their forts. As far as Hashirama was aware, these locations were chosen at random. Madara seemed to know exactly where he was going, though, so Hashirama followed, keeping his chakra pulled taut and his footsteps soft.

When they arrived at the Uchiha encampment – and they had arrived; Hashirama could tell from the taste of fiery chakras singeing the air – there was a moment of stillness. A long, low stone wall blocked their path, broken by a single wooden gate. Upon the gate, the Uchiha fan was painted in crisp red and white.

“I think we caught them by surprise,” Madara said lowly.

The gate opened, and Hashirama looked up –

– and his sight filled with swirling black _tomoe_ –

– and he could hear Madara saying, “Hikaku!” as if greeting an old friend, even as Hashirama crumpled to the ground.

Then everything went dark.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All of the credit for Nekobaa in this story goes to secondmeteor, specifically her fic "Early Summer Rain." Go open it in another tag and read it. Now.


	17. An Addendum

Hashirama awoke to the distant sound of drums. They pounded throughout his head, reverberated down his spine, sent tremors through the bones in his hands – where was he? He could feel the gentle grit of dirt under his palms. His hands were unbound. He was sitting upright, back to some unyielding surface that sent a low _thrum_ through his spine – wood, then, and that was a relief – and when Hashirama breathed in, he tasted smoke.

He opened his eyes. There was a hazy pain behind his temple at the action, but not the splitting agony from last time – another relief, he thought dimly. He was in a hall of some kind. Thick rafters crossed the ceiling in dense patterns; carved wooden pillars supported the heavy roof, images of dragons and mythical birds twisting and flying into the sky. The walls were covered in a dizzying array of painted fans – _uchiwa, sensu, gunsen_ , and others that Hashirama couldn’t even identify. At the center of the hall, leaning against a large wooden chair, was a massive white _gunbai_ , with two painted sets of _tomoe_ near the base.

The hall itself seemed completely devoid of life. Aside from the obvious throne, semicircle of chairs had been gathered near the far end. Before them sat a single, lone cushion. 

Hashirama looked down at himself, a little confused. He wasn’t tied up at all. His clothes all seemed to be the same – they hadn’t even removed the dagger tucked into his belt. Hashirama stood, one hand pressed to the wooden wall for stability. As he did so, a door near him burst open.

“Exactly,” came Madara’s commanding voice. “So, we will do it _now._ ” He strode through the doorway, barely casting a second glance at Hashirama. He was followed by a string of other Uchiha, none of whom looked pleased to see him there. Almost no one took notice of Hashirama. The drums had ceased.

“She’s _sleeping_ ,” insisted a man. Hashirama dimly recognized him as the one who’d met them at the gate and turned his gaze to avoid accidentally meeting his eyes. He looked over the rest of the Uchiha as they filled the hall.

They all looked strikingly similar. Hashirama knew the Senju clan was a motley assortment, at best – the Clan of One Thousand Hands took in people from all over – but even then, the Uchiha seemed like a very insular group. They all had the same coal-black hair and eyes, the same lean cant to their shoulders. In the dim firelight, to Hashirama, they looked like wolves, prowling around the edges of the room.

“Then wake her _up_ ,” Madara retorted. He walked straight past the carved throne, towards the gathered chairs, and took his seat on the small cushion set before them.

The man from the gate – _Hikaku?_ Hashirama wondered – threw up his hands in exasperation and said, “What do you want me to _tell_ her?”

“Tell her exactly what I told you, Hikaku.” Madara seemed no less imperious, even seated on the floor as he was. “Uchiha Madara has come to take his father’s place and seeks the approval of the council.”

“Fine,” Hikaku said. “I’ll tell her you’re here to waste her time.” He left out the same door as he had entered, slamming it shut behind him.

“Is this Senju Hashirama?” asked a kunoichi with short cropped hair and strings of red beads tied around her neck. She peered up at Hashirama’s face though the dim light of the hall.

“Leave him alone, Nezumi.” Madara’s voice carried over the low chatter.

 _Nezumi?_ Hashirama thought, hysterically, as he smiled and avoided her gaze. _What are these names? Nezumi, Nekobaa –_

“I just want to look at it, Madara-san,” Nezumi said. There was a dangerous gleam in her eyes that Hashirama recognized, and he began to subtly scoot away as she leaned against the wall and grinned. “It’s not every day we’re graced with a visit from the _God of_ _Shinobi_ , after all.”

“The god of what now?” Hashirama asked.

“They’re coming!” called a man standing near one of the windows.

Immediately all chatter in the hall ceased. A reverent silence descended as the door opened once more.

Hashirama caught a glimpse of a short figure with – were those _cat ears_? – before Nezumi seized him by the scruff of his neck and forced him into a bow, along with the rest of the room. After a still moment, she released her grip, and Hashirama was finally able to see the Uchiha council with his own eyes.

There were six people seated on the chairs before Madara. The first was the short, elderly woman from before, with hair almost bushier than Madara’s – and yes, Hashirama realized blankly, those _were_ cat ears. She must be the ‘Nekobaa-sama’ Madara had mentioned. Beside her was a man with short-cropped black hair. One of his eyes was a pale, milky white. He wore several rings that glinted in the gloom. Beside him was an old man, who wore a thick bandage over his eyes. He gripped the cane before him with a strength that belied his age. There was a woman with a heavy scar across her face, wearing a blood-red kimono that clinked every time she moved. There was a man with a strong jaw who was missing several fingers from his left hand. And, finally, on Nekobaa’s other side was seated a tall, broad-shouldered man with shoulder-length black hair, tied back at the base of his neck.

“Uchiha Madara,” said the old man with the blindfold. His voice had a strong timbre to it that echoed throughout the hall. “You called us to present your claim as Uchiha Tajima’s successor. What are our thoughts?”

“Denied,” said the man missing fingers. “Obviously, denied! He seceded to the Senju clan, and attacked us, on top of it! He couldn’t possible expect us to follow him now.”

“He has the Mangekyou sharingan,” said the woman in the red kimono. “Its power gives credence to his claim.”

“Power is not everything,” said the man with the milky white eye. “Power can’t sow crops. Power can’t lead us through the winters.”

“Power can find food, though,” said the broad-shouldered man on Nekobaa’s left. “Power can find us work, and contracts are what get us through those long winters.”

“Is power all he brings to the table?” demanded the man missing fingers. “We have powerful shinobi already – ones who haven’t betrayed their brethren. I would sooner raise one of them to the position over this rat.”

“Low blow,” muttered Nezumi, crossing her arms.

“Uchiha Madara has an aptitude for getting into trouble,” said the man with the white eye. “His entanglement with the Senju is proof enough of that.”

“Is an aptitude for getting into trouble damning in and of itself, Senzo-san?” said the woman in the red kimono. “This one could raise a few objections to _your_ position on this council, if that’s the case.”

Hashirama couldn’t help but notice that Nekobaa had yet to weigh in. She was watching Madara through slit eyes. Madara’s head was bowed.

“Settle down,” said the old man. He thumped his cane on the floor. “I agree with Kazumi-san. Unruly behavior aside, it seems the largest areas of contention are Uchiha Madara’s defection and his attack on the Kitahino Shrine. Let us discuss these, first.”

“What is there to discuss?” demanded the man missing fingers. “He attacked our clan – not only did he attack the clan, he desecrated a shrine! And in doing so, freed a hostage!”

Several glowing red eyes turned to stare at Hashirama, who was looking pointedly at the carved rafters overhead.

“He is not the only one to have desecrated a shrine and go on to become clan leader,” said Senzo. “Remember Uchiha Mizuiro, Daiju-san?”

Daiju scowled fiercely. “Of course,” he said, crossing his arms. “Do _you_ remember Uchiha Mizuiro, Senzo-san? Do you remember what he did after he became clan head?”

“Daiju-san,” the old man said, raising a hand. “The actions of Uchiha Mizuiro after his appointment are not the purview of this council. I could just as easily compare his actions to that of Uchiha Jinrai, or Uchiha Zuihou. If we begin on that route, we will all die of old age before we come to a decision. I would ask we restrain our examples to the actions before appointment, and the decisions thusly made by the councils before us.”

Daiju let out a long breath through his nose but nodded.

“Now, Senzo-san,” the old man continued. “Uchiha Mizuiro did desecrate a shrine, it is true. But as Daiju-san says, the circumstances are a bit different here. By freeing our hostage, Uchiha Madara deliberately went against the clan leader’s mission.”

“Our clan has disagreed over hostages before,” said Kazumi. “Uchiha Kohana comes to mind.”

“Uchiha Kohana did more damage than Uchiha Madara when she rebelled against Uchiha Asahi,” said the broad-shouldered man. “Her freeing of the hostages resulted in over 100 deaths. I would remind this council that, despite the fearsomeness of his attack and the damage done to the shrine, Uchiha Madara’s extraction of Senju Hashirama resulted only in injuries in our clansmen – no deaths.”

Madara’s head shot up and he twisted to stare at the man.

 _What?_ Hashirama stared at him as well. No one on the council seemed surprised to hear this – was it true? Had Madara really managed to avoid killing a single person in that attack?

“I would even go so far as to say it demonstrates a worthy degree of self-control,” Kazumi continued, as if the other man had never spoken. She leaned back in her chair and snapped open a fan. Metal glinted off its edges as she languidly fanned herself.

“Yes, yes, let’s laud his self-control, even though he summoned Susano’o against his own family,” Daiju said scathingly.

“Daiju-san,” said the old man reproachfully.

“Daiju-san, not to belabor a point, but we have precedence for the use of Susano’o in exerting a claim.” It was Senzo, this time. He raised a hand as he spoke, rings glittering. “Uchiha Michi aggressed his cousin, Uchiha Izura, over a marriage betrothal.”

“They did end up summoning Susano’o for that, didn’t they?” the old man said, ponderingly.

“That was over a _marriage betrothal_ ,” Daiju said impatiently. “That example doesn’t apply, here –”

“Doesn’t it?” Madara said suddenly.

The hall went silent.

Madara raised his head and looked at Daiju with flat eyes. “You’re making a lot of assumptions about the relationship between myself and Senju Hashirama, Daiju-san.”

Hashirama stared at Madara, heart pounding in his ears. Did he – was he – did he just say what Hashirama thought he said? Did that mean –

“Uchiha Madara,” the old man said, strong voice cutting through the rush of whispers that had blanketed the hall. “If there is some additional context that you feel is needed by this council, you are obliged to provide it.”

Nezumi was staring at Hashirama with round eyes. Kazumi had stopped fanning herself. Everyone else was staring at Madara in a hushed silence.

“Of course,” Madara said. He bowed his head briefly to the old man, then to Nekobaa. “I would ask the forgiveness of the council for my reticence. I didn’t think it’d be relevant to the proceedings. I am deeply in love with Senju Hashirama. The comparison to Uchiha Michi is apt, Ryuuzen-san. Uchiha Azuki’s life was threatened by Uchiha Izura; so too was Senju Hashirama’s life threatened. Uchiha Michi summoned the Susano’o to retrieve her; so too did I use the Susano’o to retrieve him.”

 _I am deeply in love with Senju Hashirama._ He said it so easily, like it had come from his mouth a dozen times before.

Hashirama couldn’t breathe. Could he breathe? He was breathing, he was sure of it. His eyes were fixed on Madara. Everything else – the hall, the pillars, the fans, the Uchiha clan surrounding him – everything faded to nothing, and all he could see was Madara, kneeling on a square cushion, holding Hashirama’s soul in his hands.

The old man, Ryuuzen, was angling his head towards Madara, as if looking at him through the bandages. “Madara-kun, you’re not just saying that for the comparison to count in your favor, are you?”

“Am I the sort of person to make such a declaration lightly?” Madara said scornfully. “I would die for Senju Hashirama. I would slaughter a nation on his word. His goals are my goals; his breath is my breath. I love him like the earth loves the sun, and when I die, my reincarnations will continue to love him, even to the end of time. Do not insult me by implying I say this out of _convenience_ , Ryuuzen-san.”

There was a brief, trembling silence as the council digested this.

“Well,” Kazumi said suddenly, snapping her fan shut. “I just thought of three more examples.”

The council erupted into a clamor. Daiju was first on his feet, and then the broad-shouldered man on Nekobaa’s left. Ryuuzen thumped his cane and called for peace, but no one listened. Senzo was shouting and gesturing frantically – Kazumi was laughing in a piercing wail – Nezumi was clinging to Hashirama’s arm, questions falling rapid-fire from her lips.

The Uchiha around Hashirama looked almost as shocked as he felt, staring at him with open mouths and bright red eyes. Hashirama didn’t even need to avoid their gazes – why would he need to? His eyes hadn’t left Madara, who was still seated even among the pandemonium. He seemed to be speaking to Nekobaa, who had leaned forward in her seat. A small smile curled the corners of her lips.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you're the sort of person who finds use in visual aides, I made you a handy guide to the members of the Uchiha Council. Because I love you. https://ancharan.tumblr.com/post/622879177328164864/look-mom-i-made-an-unholy-fuckton-of-ocs-for-two


	18. A Gamble

The debate – which had escalated into a full-blown fight, then de-escalated back into a debate when the broad-shouldered man picked Daiju up by the scruff of his neck and shook him like a kitten – lasted for almost four more hours. Hashirama didn’t see Madara reference the scrap of paper tucked into his belt at all, but once in a while he would interject with a rebuttal or a counterexample, which invariably triggered a whole new round of arguments.

The Uchiha clansmen filling the hall came and went in a steady stream. At some point, someone started drumming again in the distance. Hashirama could smell roast meat from somewhere outside. Nezumi clung to his elbow like a limpet, teeth bared in a feral grin like she’d just been given a wonderful gift. She occasionally had short, gleeful exchanges with the other Uchiha around them. Everyone was talking about Hashirama, but no one seemed interested in actually talking _to_ Hashirama, which was perfectly fine by him. He wasn’t entirely sure he _could_ talk at the moment, even if he’d wanted to.

Hashirama leaned against the wall, letting the wooden boards take almost all of his weight, and watched Madara through the shifting crowd.

 _Madara loved him_. _Madara loved him. Madara loved him **back**_ **.** Hashirama was reeling. Hashirama was unmoored and adrift. Someone could have stabbed him in the chest, and he wouldn’t have noticed. Why should he care? _Madara loved him back_.

Hashirama only realized Nezumi had left when she returned in a jangle of beads, holding two long skewers of meat.

“Eat!” she said with that same manic delight in her voice. “Eat, oh beloved one!” She laughed like a jackal and thrust the skewer into his hand, manually closing his fingers around it.

“Nezumi, it’ll choke if it tries to eat that,” said an Uchiha nearby. “Look at it. It’s in shock.”

“Why wouldn’t it be in shock? I would be!” she said, pulling a piece of meat off her own skewer with her teeth. “Imagine, being loved by Uchiha Madara!”

Hashirama stared blankly at the skewer in his hand. Was this his hand? Was he supposed to do something with this?

“I mean, I guess we could’ve seen this coming,” said someone else. “Isn’t it the reason Madara-sama awakened his sharingan in the first place?”

“No, we aren’t supposed to know about that, remember?” someone else said. They all laughed.

Hashirama remembered what hands were for. He slowly raised the skewer to his mouth and took a bite. Hot juice and peppery spices burst over his tongue.

Daiju was standing again. “So as long as it was for _love_ , it’s fine, then?!”

“That’s not what I’m saying at all, Daiju-san,” Senzo returned. “He was never captured, and his original mission was not secession. Your comparison to Uchiha Kazune is fallacious.”

“Must we litigate the differences between surrender and capture, Senzo-san?” Ryuuzen said wearily.

“I think it is pertinent to the charges being discussed, yes,” Senzo said. “Uchiha Kazune appealed the council after his _capture_ by the Yamanaka clan. Capture connotes weakness. Uchiha Madara is saying he _surrendered_. There is a _difference_.”

“Do we have any examples of a clan leader who surrendered to an enemy before appointment?” asked Kazumi.

“Uchiha Fumiko,” Madara said.

“Uchiha Fumiko wasn’t –”

Hashirama tuned them out and focused on his skewer of meat. “What is this?” he asked Nezumi, who was sitting on the ground beside him, playing cards with two other Uchiha.

She sent him a toothy grin from the floor. “Man,” she said.

One of the Uchiha swatted her shoulder. “It’s pork,” he said curtly, laying a card on the ground.

“What game are you playing?” Hashirama asked. He slid down the wall into a crouch, pulling off another piece of meat-that-was- _probably_ -not-man as he went.

“Oh? Bored with your beloved’s appeal already?” Nezumi asked.

“They’ve been going for almost five hours,” Hashirama said. “How long do these councils normally last?”

The Uchiha around him exchanged pitying looks. Hashirama took that as a bad sign and folded his legs to sit next to Nezumi. “Show me how to play this game,” he said.

* * *

“Are you winning?” came a voice from behind Hashirama. He jumped and whipped around, Nezumi’s beads clacking around his neck as he did so. Hikaku stood behind him, arms folded, smiling amicably.

“Uh,” Hashirama said. “I think so?”

“It is,” Nezumi bemoaned, throwing her cards down in disgust. “This gormless idiot’s better than _me,_ and it’s not even cheating! It’s not _fair_.”

Hikaku bent down and whispered, “Don’t believe her. She’s pretending to be bad at this to get you to bet something valuable.”

Hashirama almost didn’t catch the wicked grin that flashed over Nezumi’s face. He opened his mouth, ready to ham the part of the injured party, when a roar came from the other side of the room.

“Well,” Hikaku said, straightening. “It looks like they’ve made a decision.” He clapped Hashirama on the back. “I have to go. Just wanted to apologize for the hypnosis earlier. Old habits die hard.” He vanished into the crowd in a swirl of dark purple.

“Did he say they’ve made a decision?” Hashirama asked Nezumi. She was already on her feet, sharingan blazing in her eyes as she craned her head towards the front of the room.

Hashirama stood and looked out over the crowd. The hall was clamoring with shouts and cries – the drums outside grew louder and louder – Nekobaa had gotten to her feet, a reverential path cleared before her as she made her way to the carved wooden throne. Madara stood, as did the rest of the council, and followed behind her. Every sharingan in the room was activated – _To remember the moment?_ Hashirama wondered – as Nekobaa grasped the _gunbai_ by its long, wrapped handle and lifted it with ease.

The hall fell silent.

Nekobaa turned, holding the fan flat, and offered it to Madara with both hands. He bowed low and accepted it. The white planes of the _gunbai_ flashed in the firelight as he raised it above his head to a thunderous cheer.

“Of course, they let him take the job,” Nezumi said to no one in particular. “Who else could they have even given it to? Hikaku?”

Hashirama wasn’t listening. He was staring, rapturously, at the victorious grin lighting up Madara’s face.

Madara was staring back. Still holding the gunbai, he began walking towards Hashirama. The crowd parted for him as it had done for Nekobaa, and within moments he was mere feet away. His free hand stretched out – someone out in the crowd wolf-whistled, cuing raucous laughter– and Madara took Hashirama by the arm and began to pull him towards the door. Nezumi followed them with an entertained grin on her face.

Night had fallen during the council meeting. Hashirama had the brief glimpse of a large fire pit, surrounded by people laughing and talking, and the drums on either end of the long hall, now silent, before Madara turned back to him, consuming his vision once more.

Madara opened his mouth as if to say something, but his eyes zeroed in on Hashirama’s neck and a dark expression fell over his face. He reached up and pulled the beaded necklace free with a _snap_.

“Hey!” Hashirama protested. “I won that!”

“You don’t _want_ this,” Madara replied, depositing the necklace into a sniggering Nezumi’s hand. “I _told_ you to leave him alone, Nezumi.”

Nezumi retied the string of beads around her own throat and snickered. “You heard him, Madara-sama. He _wants_ my necklace!”

“He doesn’t want anything. Go bother Hikaku,” Madara said, waving her off. Nezumi winked at Hashirama one last time before disappearing into the dark. Madara let the tip of the _gunbai_ fall to the ground with a thud and looked back at Hashirama.

“Congratulations,” Hashirama said, smiling. “Madara- _sama._ ”

“Don’t fucking start,” Madara said, shoving at him.

Hashirama caught his hand before he could pull back. “…Was it true?” he said, quietly.

Madara looked at him for a long minute. Then, without warning, his hand shot out of Hashirama’s grasp to fist in his shirt – and then Madara was kissing him, pushing him back until his shoulders met the wall, _gunbai_ left to fall to the ground as Madara’s hands tangled in Hashirama’s hair. Madara’s lips were rough and warm, and Hashirama thought he could taste smoke.

Madara pulled back, black eyes darker than Hashirama had ever seen them, red high on his cheeks, hair in disarray. “’ _Was it true,’”_ he said mockingly, and Hashirama couldn’t even begrudge him for it as he dragged him back down for another kiss.

“I thought,” Hashirama said, forcing himself to pull back. “I thought you said – in the shed, you said –”

“What? That I didn’t feel the same?” Madara laughed, a low puff of air between his lips. “Hashirama, back then, I wanted you to _kill_ me, not –”

“Not what?” Hashirama said. “Not what, _Madara-sama_?”

“ _Asshole_ ,” Madara whispered harshly. “You know exactly what I want you to do to me.”

“I don’t think I do,” Hashirama said, running one hand through Madara’s wild hair as the other cupped his jaw. “Why don’t you tell me?”

So Madara told him, in exacting detail, leaning in close so the words brushed Hashirama’s ear. And Hashirama listened, and Hashirama laughed, and drew him in for another bruising kiss. The fire grew even brighter in the pit, the wood of the trees sang to him with the echo of a melody, and all around him, Madara’s chakra burned, and burned.


	19. A Whirlwind

It was almost surreal, Hashirama reflected as he watched the Uchiha clan scurry around their campsite. He had already learned more about their clan in twelve hours than he had in his entire life. The Uchiha clan moved like clockwork, each shift in activity denoted by someone pounding one of the massive hide drums. The clan ate, bathed, worked, hunted, and trained in rotating shifts – they lived with one eye on the tree line, constantly ready for an attack. The food was sparse, limited to what they could scavenge or hunt in the surrounding woods. There was no deference to seniority when the drum sounded for the meals – it was a mad scramble to the fireside, and if someone was too slow to reach the table, they were left with nothing. Hashirama watched this happen for two meals, then got up and walked out the main gate, to a bare patch of dirt on the eastern side of the encampment. Several red eyes tracked him as he left, as they always did.

Growing trees was easy. Hashirama could pull enough lumber out of the ground to house a thousand clans. Growing things that _weren’t_ trees was… several degrees more difficult. He sat cross-legged in the bare dirt and rested his palms on the loose soil.

Four hours later, Madara found himself being dragged outside by an excitable Hashirama, who forced him to bend down to look at the tiny gourd that had sprouted from the ground.

* * *

“No, no,” Nezumi said, batting his hands away. “They’ll see you if you do it like that. You have to switch the cards like _this_.”

“Ohhh,” Hashirama said. “Like _this_?”

“Yes, exactly!” She let out a wild cackle. “You win, Senju!”

* * *

“We haven’t been attacked,” Madara said, propping himself up on his elbows, dark hair blending into the black shadows of the room. “It’s been almost a whole week.”

“You’re right,” Hashirama said. “I wonder why?”

“You, probably,” Madara said. “I get the feeling Tobirama is loath to face you on the field.”

“Tobirama’s not a coward.”

“Not wanting to fight you isn’t cowardice, Hashirama. It’s common sense. Something my clan has always lacked.” Madara leaned over and pressed a kiss to Hashirama’s forehead.

* * *

“Do you think they…” Hashirama sat back on his heels, dusting the dirt off his palms.

Madara looked up at him from the row of plants they were harvesting, clearly annoyed at the interruption. “Do I think who what?”

“Do you think they hate me?” Hashirama said, looking out into the trees.

Madara pulled the beet out of the ground with a _pop_. “You’ll have to ask them,” he said. “Quit slacking.”

“I’m not slacking!” Hashirama protested. Behind him, someone let out a chuckle.

“Madara-sama, where do I put the big leafy ones?” called a child with curly black hair, holding a wide basket laden with dark greens.

“With the other big leafy ones, Kagami,” Madara said without looking over. “Hashirama, you know none of us know how to cook any of this.”

Hashirama just laughed.

* * *

“What?” Nezumi stared at her cards. “No.”

“Yes,” Hashirama said. “Gimme.” He held out his hand.

“No!” Nezumi said. “You cheating son of a bitch! Rematch! I demand a rematch!”

“Did you _see_ me cheat?” Hashirama said, eyes wide. “With your sharingan, you definitely would have seen me cheat if I had, right? So if you didn’t see me, it means I didn’t cheat.”

“It has a point, Nezumi,” said one of the onlookers.

“Go _fuck_ yourself, Senju,” Nezumi said, handing him the string of coins. “I’m dealing this round. Keep your dirty fingers away from my cards!”

The onlookers laughed. Hashirama grinned broadly as he tied the coins to his belt.

* * *

“I think,” Hashirama panted, forehead resting against Madara’s, both slick with sweat. “I think I need to go talk to Tobirama.”

“If you ever say his name in this context again, I _will_ slit your throat,” Madara hissed, before pulling him back down.


	20. A Roadblock

The way back to the Senju camp was shorter than Hashirama expected. The trees and mountains flew by, and by the time he reached the tall wooden gates of the encampment the sun had barely reached the crest of the sky.

Hashirama approached, feeling a surge of chakra as his clan – former clan? – realized he was there.

Toka materialized outside the doors in a crouching position, one hand behind her back, gripping a knife she thought Hashirama couldn’t see. She stood slowly, keeping her hand on the dagger.

Hashirama could already tell this wasn’t going to be as easy. “Toka-san,” he said measuredly.

“Hashirama,” Toka replied. “What brings you here?”

“Don’t I live here?” Hashirama said, folding his arms.

“Not anymore,” Toka said. “Our orders are to turn you away, Hashirama-sa – Hashirama.”

“I see.” Hashirama nodded slowly, letting his eyes drift along the wooden wall. “I’m here to seek an audience with Senju Butsuma,” He said, looking back at Toka. He lowered himself into a short bow.

Toka didn’t relax. “Senju Butsuma is no longer our clan leader,” she said.

“What?” Hashirama asked, alarmed. Why hadn’t he thought to check in on him during their last battle? After the fight with Tobirama, he’d completely forgotten to make sure his father made it out safely – if Butsuma had died while he was controlling the field – “Has something happened to him? Is he okay?”

“I am not authorized to disclose that information,” Toka said, stiffly.

“Toka, please,” Hashirama said, taking a half-step forward. “Even as angry as the clan is with me, please tell me if he’s alive or not. I am asking as your cousin.”

Toka hesitated, tension tightening the lines of her face. “He is alive,” she said at last.

Hashirama let out an explosive sigh. “Thank you,” he said. Toka frowned, and readjusted her grip on the knife. “Then, in that case – I am here to seek an audience with Senju Tobirama. Or the clan leader, whoever that may be.”

“He is otherwise indisposed.”

“Is he?” Hashirama said. “When should I come back, then?”

Toka hesitated again, her eyes flicking to the side. “Tomorrow,” she said.

“Then I’ll be here in the morning,” Hashirama said. He bowed again, and left.

* * *

It rained that night. Hashirama didn’t go back to the Uchiha camp, but pulled a shelter out of the roots of an old tree at the base of a cliff and watched the water run in rivulets down the rocky crags. When the sun finally broke through the clouds the next day, Hashirama returned to the Senju encampment, and knocked again on the heavy wooden door.

It was Kaito, this time. He was holding a kunai between the folds of his hakama.

“Good morning,” Hashirama said. “I am here to see Senju Tobirama. I seek an audience with the Senju clan leader.”

Kaito shook his head.

“Is he otherwise indisposed?” Hashirama said, dryly.

Kaito shrugged.

“Is he busy?” Hashirama tried, instead.

Kaito nodded.

“Should I come back tomorrow?” Hashirama asked.

Kaito nodded again.

So, Hashirama turned and left, leaving footprints in the mud behind him. He heard the gentle _clunk_ of the gate shutting as Kaito went back inside.

* * *

Seisa was the one guarding the gate next. She was already standing outside it when he arrived, arms folded behind her back. She bore no visible weaponry, but several tightly bound scrolls dangled from her belt.

“Hashirama-sama,” she said, nodding at him.

“Good morning, Seisa-san,” Hashirama said. “Can you let me inside?”

“I cannot.”

Hashirama wasn’t surprised at this. “Is Tobirama here?”

“No.”

“…No?” Hashirama repeated, cocking his head. “Where is he?”

Seisa looked at him for a long moment. “Away,” she said.

“Seisa.”

“I’m sorry.”

“I just want to talk to him.”

“I’m sorry, Hashirama-sama.”

Hashirama shook his head and ran a hand through his hair in agitation. “What do I do,” he asked. “What do I have to do to get him to talk to me?”

Seisa’s eyes were downcast. She said nothing.

Hashirama left.


	21. An Answer

When Hashirama returned the next morning, the air was already heavy and humid. It was going to be a hot day.

No guards approached him as he rapped on the wooden gate.

Hashirama stood a respectful distance away and waited, arms folded in his sleeves. He stood there, waiting for a response, for an hour. When the sun had finally burned away the last of the dew from the leaves around him, Hashirama strode forward, opened the gate, and stepped inside.

The compound was empty. There were no chakra signatures in any of the houses, no signs of life in any of the doorways or windows. The medical tent that had been erected in the center of the encampment had been taken down, and the sickbeds and boxes of supplies cleared away. Yuma’s house was empty, as well, the ever-present fires in her hearths long-since banked.

Hashirama wandered, fingers trailing over wooden fence posts, until he found himself standing in front of the clan leader’s house. He had the sinking feeling that he’d missed something. He opened the door.

The house was devoid of life. The wall scrolls, the furniture, the decorations were all still present – but there were no attendants or servants, there were no family members lounging on the _engawa_ outside. Butsuma’s study was clean. The tangled mess of scrolls and letters had been neatly organized and tucked away, the polished surface of the desk smooth and glossy in the morning light.

Hashirama’s rooms were bare. Someone had come in and taken down the decorations, removed the bedding, and shuttered the windows. Hashirama noticed his bonsai was gone and felt a brief pang of loss.

It was at the entrance to Tobirama’s room that Hashirama hesitated, fist raised to knock against the sliding door. He couldn’t sense any chakra within, and it wouldn’t make sense for Tobirama to be in here, now, when the rest of the clan was so obviously gone _._ Hashirama lowered his hand, without knocking, and opened the door.

Tobirama’s rooms were exactly as he remembered them. Tobirama had always kept his rooms sparse. The _tokonoma_ in the corner, his brother’s only nod to frivolity, still displayed a delicate painting of koi fish. Tobirama’s armor racks were there. His _odachi_ was gone. The window was open, looking out over the small pond behind their house.

Hashirama walked around the room as if in a trance. He ran his hands over the carved armor racks; he felt the nail that hung the koi painting to the wall. He was turning to leave when something flew in through the window. Startled, Hashirama whipped around, hand going to the _tanto_ tied to his belt.

A three-legged crow was standing on the tatami mats, in the center of the room, looking up at Hashirama with deep black eyes.

“Hello, little thing,” said Yatagarasu.

Hashirama sank down to his knees, folding forwards into a bow.

“Feeling especially courteous today, are we?” Yatagarasu said, laughter in his deep voice.

“I feel it might be warranted,” Hashirama said, sitting upright. “Yatagarasu… what’s going on?”

“You’re sitting in an empty house,” the bird said. He hopped closer, cocking his head to look at Hashirama with beady eyes. “Even you should know that, little thing.”

Hashirama waited patiently.

When it became obvious he wasn’t going to take the bait, Yatagarasu ruffled his feathers dismissively, turning away. “There was a battle.”

“A battle? Where?” Hashirama said, leaning forward. He didn’t want to have to repeat what he had done last time – but if the Senju and Uchiha were to fight again, he needed to be there. He had proven that he _could_ forestall their fighting, which meant he _had_ to forestall their fighting – every person that died on the field, now, was now his responsibility.

“There _was_ a battle,” Yatagarasu repeated, emphasizing. “Senju Tobirama thought it prudent to... relocate.”

“But everything is still here,” Hashirama said, gesturing. “All of Butsuma’s documents were still in his office. That’s not something they would leave behind.”

“Senju Tobirama’s documents,” Yatagarasu interrupted, staring at him forcefully. “Senju Tobirama’s office.”

“Tobirama’s documents,” Hashirama said. “Of course.” He bowed his head for a minute. “Yatagarasu, can you… is my father really unharmed?”

Yatagarasu tossed his head, and began preening the underside of a wing. “He is alive,” he said. “His abdication was of his own volition.”

“Can you take me to him?”

“No,” the bird said simply. He shook his head and laid the wing flat against his side.

“Why can’t I see them?” Hashirama asked, hands fisting on his knees. “Are my crimes really so great? I haven’t killed anyone. I haven’t betrayed anyone.”

“So you say,” Yatagarasu said. “Have you considered that they might just be tired of you?”

Hashirama stared at him, feeling his heart drop. “…What?”

The bird cocked his head again. “They might just be sick of you,” he repeated.

“No,” Hashirama said firmly. “That’s not the reason.”

“Are you so sure?” The bird hopped closer. “You’ve made life awfully difficult for them, recently. Not killing Uchiha Madara has sparked a whole new round of conflicts; your obstinate refusal to follow orders has made you an unpredictable and dangerous element on the battlefield; your hostility towards your family has made you just… unpleasant to be around.”

“I don’t believe you,” Hashirama said. He unclenched his fists. “I was right not to kill Uchiha Madara. My refusal to follow orders is the reason the Hagoromo clan still lives. And I was _never_ hostile to my family.”

“Weren’t you?” Yatagarasu wondered. He opened his beak wide, and Hashirama’s own voice echoed out. “ _But how would I use the mokuton to protect us if I had no tongue? How could I take your place if I could not speak?_ _I am not threatening you, honorable father. I want what is best for the clan, as I always have._ ” The bird shut his beak and hopped onto Hashirama’s leg. “What were those words, if not an implicit threat?”

“The truth,” Hashirama said bluntly.

“It _was_ a threat, little thing. You were using the truths Butsuma held in his heart to create a story – you were telling him that to go against your will was to leave your clan powerless and defenseless, leaderless in a time of war. Is this wrong?”

Hashirama wanted to look away, but his gaze was arrested by Yatagarasu’s black eyes. “There was no recourse,” he said. “To be a dutiful son was to kill Uchiha Madara. You know this, Yatagarasu. I could no more kill him than I could cut off my own head.”

“Perhaps,” Yatagarasu said. “But that doesn’t have anything to do with ‘the good of the clan,’ does it?”

“What do you want?” Hashirama said, despairingly. At last he tore his gaze away from the black pits in Yatagarasu’s face. “Why are you here?”

“What do _you_ want?” Yatagarasu said. His voice never wavered, never changed from that same, steady baritone – but his claws dug into Hashirama’s thigh as he spoke. “Why are _you_ here, Senju Hashirama? To make amends? To reconcile your families and live together, happily ever after?”

“Yes!” Hashirama said.

“Liar,” Yatagarasu said, blood welling up where his claws punctured Hashirama’s hakama. “You want to have them both, and you don’t want to cede anything to get them. You want your idle mornings with the Uchiha, eating what little food they have and wasting their time entertaining you with children’s games. You want the love and respect of your father, but you don’t want to follow orders or work for the good of your family. You want the admiration of your brother, like when he was an ignorant child and still thought there was something to admire in you.”

“Shut up,” Hashirama said.

“You think this idea of a village will solve all your problems? You convinced Uzumaki Mito that allying with the village would benefit her clan, even when Uzumaki were clearly already better off than the Senju. You convinced yourself that enslavement and subordination to the Senju was a better outcome for the Hagoromo than an honorable death. You have your plaything, Uchiha Madara, trying to convince the Uchiha even now that they will somehow come out on top, as if the game won’t be rigged against them from the start if they buy in –”

“I said, _shut up_!” Hashirama hissed. His hands didn’t move from their positions on his legs, but he yearned the smack the bird off him with every fiber in his body.

“You want everyone and everything to come together in a way that best benefits _you_ ,” Yatagarasu continued. “Their arguments, their concerns, their fears – they’re all just something for you to debate away, or stampede over, until they finally break and fall in line. Because _you_ know what’s best. Your _village_ is what’s best. What do Senju Butsuma’s years of experience matter? What do Hagoromo Toshiki’s reservations have to do with your great _vision_?”

“Why,” Hashirama enunciated slowly. “Are. You. _Here_.”

“Uchiha Tajima was right, but not in the way he thought. You _are_ to blame for him losing his last son. And now Uchiha Madara’s going to drive his clan straight into your deathtrap of a village, so in a way, you cost him that, too.” At last, Yatagarasu hopped off of Hashirama’s leg. He started moving towards the window. “Just some food for thought. Anyway, little thing, your clan will come back tonight – if they haven’t abandoned you entirely.” The crow launched itself out the window with a flurry of feathers, laughing as it disappeared into the sky.

Hashirama watched it go, then let his head sink into his hands. He remained in that position, even as the shadows crawled across the tatami mats as the sun sank, and the distant tickle of chakra grew as his clan returned home. The window was dark. The house was dark. Hashirama was sitting where Yatagarasu had left him when Tobirama opened the door to his bedroom. His brother let out a surprised yelp when he suddenly saw the long sweep of Hashirama’s hair in the shadows of his room.

“Hashirama!” he said harshly, pulling on his shoulder. “What are you doing in here?”

“What am I doing, Tobirama?” he said listlessly, eyes fixed on the window. “Was he right?”

“Was _who_ right?” Tobirama said blankly. The anger seemed to have left him as soon as it had come, and was quickly replaced with something close to concern. He knelt on the floor in front of Hashirama, resting his hands on his shoulders.

“Is this village…” Hashirama couldn’t even finish the sentence. He looked away, the words dying in his throat.

Tobirama stared at him, confused. He pressed a hand to his forehead, then two fingers to his pulse. “Anija, what’s – why are you just sitting here? In the dark?”

“Am I just being selfish?” Hashirama whispered. “Am I really so vain?”

“Hashirama,” Tobirama said sharply. “ _What_ are you talking about?”

“I’ve ruined everything,” Hashirama said. His breathing was starting to come faster. He felt dizzy. “I shouldn’t have gotten involved – I – god, I was so arrogant –” He could barely get the words out. He felt like he was choking, like his throat was closing in on itself. How dare he? Did he really think the Uzumaki would be better off _here_? Did he really think the Hagoromo would accept their alliance with gratitude? And the Uchiha – the Uchiha – Tobirama was the Senju clan leader, of course he would never assent to an alliance that favored the Uchiha, and if the Uchiha aren’t in charge then the council would never agree, and if the Uchiha are still their enemies then children will keep being sent to die in their wars –

Hashirama felt sturdy hands on either side of his face.

“Anija, you need to calm down.” Tobirama said. “Look at me. _Look_ at me. Calm down. You’re safe. I don’t know what you’re thinking, but you’re safe. You’re home.”

“It won’t work,” Hashirama said. He couldn’t breathe. “This is pointless – it’s all pointless. I’ve thrown everything towards this and now I’ve lost you, I’ve lost the clan, I won’t be able to save Madara or the Uchiha and –”

“Imori, go get Kotoe, something’s wrong –”

“Yes sir!”

 _It was all for nothing,_ Hashirama thought. He didn’t have the air to speak anymore. His own family hated him now – he was dragging the Uchiha and the Uzumaki and the Hagoromo into a deathtrap, they would slaughter each other if forced to live together – how arrogant was he, to think that he could overcome centuries of hate just by _talking_ it away? He –

* * *

“… waking up…”

“… no, never…”

The words sounded like they were coming through a long tunnel.

“... any idea what…”

“… could be.”

Hashirama opened his eyes. There was a wooden ceiling above him. The lighting was dim. Was it nighttime?

“He was just _sitting_ ,” said a voice. Tobirama? “I opened the door and he was just _sitting_ there. When he saw me he –”

“I saw,” came Kotoe’s voice. “This sort of thing isn’t unheard-of. He’ll be fine, provided he didn’t somehow suffocate himself in his sleep.”

“I’d ask you to keep the jokes to yourself right now, Kotoe-san,” Tobirama said frostily.

“Don’t be rude, Tobirama,” Hashirama said automatically. His voice was weak. He let his head fall to the side and saw Tobirama’s feet striding hurriedly toward him.

“Anija,” Tobirama said, dropping to his knees. His face came within view. He looked worried, even through the deep shadows cast by the floor lamp. “Are you alright?”

“I’m fine,” Hashirama said. He moved to sit up, and immediately fell back on his elbows as a wave of dizziness hit him. “I’m – where am I?”

“My room,” Tobirama said. He shared a worried look with Kotoe, who was standing over them with her arms crossed.

“Oh,” Hashirama said. He looked around. It was Tobirama’s room. He saw the painting of the koi fish, the armor stand, the window…

The window. Yatagarasu.

“Oh,” Hashirama said again. He sat upright, clutching his head. “Oh, no.”

“Hashirama, what _happened_ ,” Tobirama said, stressing each syllable. He grabbed Hashirama’s shoulder. “What drove you into such a state?”

“I just –” Hashirama let out a brief, involuntary laugh. “Tobirama, am I crazy?”

Tobirama shared another look with Kotoe. “…I don’t,” he began, falteringly. “No?” He shook his head. “No, anija.”

“Are you sure?” Hashirama said, turning to look at him. “Are you really sure? Since we were kids?”

“Anija, what are you talking about?”

“What’s gotten into me?” Hashirama asked himself, resting his face in his hands. “Not even a month. Not even a _month_ ago, everything was _fine_ , and then –”

“Does this have something to do with Uchiha Madara?” Tobirama asked. His voice was very low.

Kotoe headed towards the door, bowing briefly at them before closing it behind her. Hashirama could hear her exchange a few words with someone in the hall outside before her footsteps receded.

“No?” Hashirama said. “No. Yes? What _doesn’t_ have to do with Uchiha Madara, Tobirama?” He shook his head, the curtain of his hair spilling over his shoulders as he did so. “This – I’m not worried about Madara. I’m worried – Tobirama –” Where to even begin? He turned to look at his little brother with frustration tight in his voice. “How much do you know, Tobirama?”

Tobirama blinked. “What do you mean, anija?”

“I’m asking, how much do you know? About the past month? What do you know about what I’ve been doing?”

Hashirama could actually see Tobirama bite back a cutting remark – something about wasting time betraying their family, probably. Their last fight seemed so far away, now. His brother cast his face to the side, eyes sliding over the wooden walls.

“You’ve been… busy,” Tobirama said at last. “I read your scroll from the Uzumaki. And you… persuaded the Hagoromo to cease hostilities against us.”

“Yes,” Hashirama said. “Do you know why?”

“Have I ever known why you do _anything_ , anija?”

“I wanted to create a village,” Hashirama said. Then he laughed. The hilarity of the situation was beginning to strike him – he was sitting in his brother’s bedroom, losing his mind, desperately trying to stitch together a few ragged alliances and call it a village. A thought occurred to him. “Tobirama,” Hashirama said suddenly, turning. The concerned look was back on Tobirama’s face. “Where is Butsuma?”

Tobirama blinked, clearly taken aback. “He’s in his room, anija.”

Hashirama was on his feet before his brother had finished the sentence. He slid open the shoji screen with a clatter, startling Imori, who had been standing guard on the other side, and strode down the wooden hallway with determined footsteps.

“Hashirama-sama, you –”

“Hello, Imori, long time no see!” Hashirama said as he passed him. He didn’t realize he’d dropped the honorific. He also didn’t see Imori’s scandalized blush as he made his way down to Butsuma’s rooms.

He rapped against the wooden frame and opened it without waiting for a response. Butsuma had been reading, sitting by the window in a dark green yukata.

“Honorable father,” Hashirama said, folding into a bow. His knees touched the mat, and his forehead followed – but just as quickly he sprang forward, disregarding all sense of propriety, and folded his father in a crushing hug.

“Hashirama!” Butsuma said. Startled was the mildest description of the whirlwind of emotions playing out on his face.

There was the sound of footsteps, then Tobirama appeared in the doorframe behind him. He was carrying a kunai.

“Dad,” Hashirama said, pulling back to grip him by the shoulders. “I’m sorry.”

The kunai fell to the floor with a clatter.

“What?” Butsuma said.

“I misunderstood,” Hashirama said. “Well – no, I misspoke? I am sorry for the divisions I have caused in our family, honorable father. I accept responsibility. It is my fault that I have caused such unrest – I am responsible for our current conflict with the Uchiha. I am the one who’s brought shame to our family. I am sorry. I wanted to apologize.”

Butsuma’s eyes slid from Hashirama to Tobirama behind him. Tobirama shrugged. Butsuma looked back at Hashirama, and gently pulled Hashirama’s hands off his shoulders.

 _Ah_ , Hashirama thought. _I’ve damaged things too much to even apologize, then._ “I understand,” he said, eyes downcast. “I’ll –”

“For once in your life, Hashirama,” Butsuma interrupted fiercely. “You will listen.”

Hashirama leaned back on his heels, withdrawing his hands from his father’s grasp, and listened.

“I do not accept your apology,” Butsuma said. Hashirama could not meet his gaze. “It is not your apology to give.”

Hashirama must have been under a genjutsu. There must have been some kind of hallucinogenic in the dust where he’d fallen – or he was dreaming – because it looked like Butsuma had folded his hands on the floor and bowed to _him_.

“Hashirama, I am sorry,” he said as he raised his head.

Hashirama stared, dumbfounded. He had no words to respond.

“As clan head, it is my duty to provide for the clan. It is my duty to raise the next generation to become leaders that will take risks and make sacrifices for the good of the many.” Butsuma’s eyes were hard. “A shinobi is one who endures for a purpose. I thought my purpose – the only path forward – was clear. I could not accept that you were also striving to achieve something.”

Hashirama opened his mouth to protest, but Butsuma raised a hand to stop him.

“I am not sure,” he said, voice firm, “Where this path of yours leads. But how could I hold anger towards you, my son, for only following my teachings? You are brash and foolhardy, it’s true, but only because that is what I raised you to be. Would I punish a bird for singing? Or a dog for chasing its prey? I raised you to be the leader of the clan, Hashirama. Why fight when you are simply acting according to your nature?”

“But I _wasn’t_ the leader of the clan,” Hashirama said, balling his hands into fists. “Honorable father, you –”

“– should have died a long time ago,” Butsuma said. “I am old. I am older than I thought I would ever be. It is because of you and your brother, Hashirama, that I have had the luxury to reach this age. I took over from my father when I was fourteen, and you are already in your twenties. By all rights, you would have already been clan leader, if I had had the decency to die young.”

“ _Honorable father_ ,” Hashirama said.

“Hashirama,” Butsuma said. “You are not to blame for our conflict with the Uchiha. Our wars with them are as sure as the tide. If it had not been called by Uchiha Tajima, it would have been called by his sons. If not his sons, then their sons. It does not matter. What is a week of conflict against a century of aggression? I don’t blame you for this, Hashirama.”

“Why did you abdicate your position as clan head?”

“Because I clearly do not know what is best for the clan anymore, Hashirama.”

“That’s not true, you –”

“Hashirama,” Butsuma interrupted, frowning. “Do not pretend you agreed with me then just to debase yourself now. I will not hear it.”

Hashirama shut his mouth.

“I abdicated as clan head simply because I do not have the vision to lead the clan into a new future, Hashirama. I did not even consider making peace with the Hagoromo. I viewed the Uzumaki as a distant, useless ally – neither as the threat nor as the boon they could have posed. I viewed the Uchiha as…” Butsuma shook his head, mouth twisting in something that could have been a grin. “…guaranteed enemies.”

Tobirama stepped forward and knelt down to sit next to Hashirama. “You have not brought our family shame, Hashirama,” he said.

“Haven’t I?” Hashirama replied. “I’ve heard people talking, Tobirama. Keiko –”

“And you would trust Keiko over me?” Tobirama demanded. He turned to Butsuma. “Honorable father.”

“You have not brought us shame, Hashirama,” Butsuma said with finality, crossing his arms. “I know Keiko’s concerns. I know of all their concerns. But in the entire time he stayed here, Uchiha Madara did not transgress upon us once.”

Hashirama blinked. “He – really? Not even after –”

“After you fled into the woods, like a child?” Butsuma said. “I don’t blame you, Hashirama, but yes – abandoning the clan in the midst of a war was childish. It was wrong of me to strike you as I did.”

Hashirama looked away.

“Uchiha Madara and I had a long… talk, that night,” Butsuma continued, brows furrowing at the memory. “He was more articulate than I would have expected from a son of Uchiha Tajima.”

This startled a laugh out of Hashirama. He clasped a hand to his mouth, embarrassed. Tobirama rolled his eyes.

“We discussed _you_ , Hashirama,” Butsuma said, pinning him with a fiery glare. “He knows you well. He is better at discussing your plans than you, by far.”

“Then… you know?” Hashirama asked. “About the village?”

“We know,” Tobirama said. “You mentioned it during the battle, as well. ‘A place where we can all live in peace.’” His tone, though flat, held none of the derision from that night, something that was heartening to Hashirama.

“Uchiha Madara didn’t frame it in such a way,” Butsuma said. “But he explained your goals. And his own.”

“I see,” Hashirama said.

“Do you, Hashirama?” Butsuma asked. His mouth had twisted into the same almost-grin. “Our last battle with the Uchiha was almost two weeks ago. I believe you know how that turned out.”

“There haven’t been any more skirmishes?” Hashirama said. “At all?”

“We were ready for them,” Tobirama said. “We were prepared to battle both you and Uchiha Madara, after that night. But nothing came.”

“But –” Hashirama was deeply confused. “Earlier – Yatagarasu said there had been a battle –”

“Yatagarasu?” Tobirama interrupted, brows furrowed. “When did you see Yatagarasu?”

Hashirama stared at him. “Earlier, in your room. He – we –” He floundered for words. “The clan was gone, and we… talked. He said there was a battle. I assumed everyone was –”

“I had the clan begin practicing evacuation procedures,” Tobirama interrupted. “Training to leave with speed and efficiency should we need to avoid a conflict. At no point did I summon Yatagarasu.”

“Oh,” Hashirama said. “Uchiha Madara is the head of his clan,” he said suddenly.

“Yes,” Tobirama said. “Our spies told us as much.”

“Spies?” Hashirama said. “Since when do we have spies in the Uchiha clan?”

Tobirama and Butsuma exchanged another glance.

“Long enough,” Tobirama said flatly.

“I have to say, Hashirama,” Butsuma said dryly, looking at the ceiling. “You could have made a less… contentious choice in partner.”

Hashirama paused, digesting the words. Then he felt his face go red. “Ah,” he said.

Tobirama was staring intently at the discarded book on the floor.

“I would assume,” Butsuma said, closing his eyes. “That we will expect no further attacks from the Uchiha clan in the near future?”

Hashirama covered his face. He wanted to sink into the tatami mats and never resurface. “I – no, honorable father,” he muttered through his fingers. “Probably not.”

“Then what about you, Hashirama?”

Hashirama attempted to compose himself. “I – yes?”

“Will you stay with the Uchiha clan?” Butsuma had to force the words out. He had not opened his eyes.

Hashirama looked at Tobirama, who was still staring at the book like it held the secrets to life in its crumpled pages. “I – I hadn’t, really, um,” Hashirama said. “I hadn’t thought about it?”

“You need to start thinking these kinds of things over if you’re going to lead the clan, anija,” Tobirama said sternly, finally looking back at his brother.

“I – what?” Hashirama said. “Tobirama, _you_ lead the clan.”

“Yes,” Tobirama said. He crossed his arms. “But if you come back, I’m ceding the position to you. Hashirama, I don’t _want_ to lead the clan. This is a terrible job.”

“But,” Hashirama said, looking back and forth between his brother and father. “If I’m clan head, I’m just going to ally us with the Uchiha. I’m – is that really okay? Honorable father?”

“Why are you asking me?” Bustuma said flatly. He opened his eyes and levelled them at Hashirama. “I’m retired. And if you don’t come back, Tobirama will make the alliance with the Uchiha anyway. We can’t exactly stay enemies if you’re married to their clan head.”

Hashirama made a strangled noise. He shook his head. “This is too fast,” he said. “This is too sudden. Tobirama, during the battle, you –”

“Things were different,” Tobirama said. He shrugged. “There was a real possibility of us eliminating the Uchiha once and for all in that battle, until you intervened. I was angry.” He paused. “Sorry.”

“I’m not asking for an apology, I’m – what about Itama? Kawarama?” Hashirama said despairingly. “I just want to understand, Tobirama. Where did all your rage go?”

“Where was yours to begin with?” Tobirama said. He shook his head. “I’m not saying I’ve suddenly become a better person, anija. But the men who killed Itama and Kawarama are dead. With… _things_ the way they are, there’s no possibility we’ll overtake the Uchiha now. But there _is_ the possibility of peace.”

Hashirama stared at him. “Are you saying… peace is only an option now because I –”

“Hashirama,” Butsuma said firmly. “Peace is now an option. I do not need or want the details.” He sighed. “Are you returning to us or not, Hashirama?”

“I –” Hashirama felt tears begin to well in his eyes. Was it this easy? “Yes. Of course. _Of course_.” He bowed in a _dogeza_ , forehead brushing the floor, and again sprang forward, hooking an arm around the others as he went, pulling them close.

“Thank god,” Tobirama said, voice muffled through his fur. “Anija, you have _so_ much paperwork ahead of you.”

Hashirama laughed.

Somewhere out in the night, Yatagarasu landed on a tree branch, and began to laugh as well.


	22. A Beginning

Tobirama had not exaggerated. There were mountains of paperwork. The first thing Hashirama did the next morning was to draft a formal invitation to the leaders of the Uchiha, Uzumaki, and Hagoromo clans, inviting them to the Senju encampment to discuss the possibility of a permanent, formal alliance. For almost the entire next week he was buried in scrolls, letters, contracts, and treaties. The only disruption came three days after he sent the invitations. Hashirama was sitting at the desk – formerly Butsuma’s, formerly Tobirama’s – and heard a sound like running water; then Mito’s voice echoed in his head like it was spoken into an empty cave.

“I can’t believe you were made clan leader so soon after your visit! This is so exciting, of course the Uzumaki clan will be there to negotiate an alliance! I can’t wait to see you and Uchiha Madara again – I’ll bring the sake!” The message was followed by peals of laughter.

The Hagoromo response came in the form of a ghostly white apparition that appeared in Hashirama’s window an hour after midnight, depositing a small, tightly rolled scroll onto his futon before vanishing in a cloud of mist. It said that Hagoromo Tenshin gladly accepted Senju Hashirama’s invitation in small, perfect characters.

At the end of the first week, Hashirama was awoken by an alarm. A Senju runner flew through the village, pounding urgently on Hashirama’s front door. He opened it, bleary eyed, and listened as the runner frantically informed him that they were under attack by the Uchiha. Hashirama nodded, yawned widely, and thanked the runner for the message, before telling him to go get some breakfast from Yuma. Then he pulled on his sandals, and went to go greet Madara at the front gate.

Madara was standing, arms crossed, hair tossing in the wind. The great white _gunbai_ was strapped to his back. He was accompanied by the council and their retainers – minus Nekobaa, Hashirama noted absently. As Hashirama pulled the gate wide, Madara strode forward. The council’s retainers laughed and whistled as their leader pulled Hashirama down for a bruising kiss. The Senju guards looked on, dumbfounded, as Hashirama turned and gleefully led the Uchiha contingent into the heart of the encampment.

The Uzumaki delegation arrived with giant baskets of fruit and flowers the size of a small child. The Hagoromo clan walked through the gate solemnly, in single file, as if they were shackled in a line, only to scatter as Saya, laughing, chased a dog right through the middle of their ranks. The Uchiha dispersed throughout the encampment, Nezumi immediately zeroing in on Mito like a moth to a flame. The Uchiha council found that they had more in common with the Senju elders than anyone could have anticipated, and together they lurked in the shadows, casting dark glances whenever the children grew too raucous in their play.

What could be said about the negotiations that followed? Who was delegated to complete which tasks, who was entrusted with building which sections? What clans would live where, who would be allowed entry, which lands would they stake and claim as their own?

 _What would they call the village?_ Hashirama asked Madara, laughter in his voice. _How would they determine a leader?_ asked one of the council members. Hashirama, of course, proposed Uchiha Madara, and there was general consensus – he had led the Uchiha to peace, after all. Mito endorsed him for the Uzumaki delegation. Saya’s loud and insistent admiration was enough to win the hearts of both the Senju clan and Hagoromo Tenshin, who also assented to the appointment.

Tobirama proposed a democratic system for successive appointments – which, once explained, was met with general approval as well.

There were details to work out, of course, and differing priorities to be mediated. There were boundaries to draw, and even more alliances to make with clans outside the ones gathered. They had to meet with the daimyo, and write out the treaties, and then actually begin the process of building –

– but for now Hashirama sat, brushing shoulders with Uchiha Madara on one side and Tobirama on the other, as Uchiha Daiju harangued Senju Eiji, and Uchiha Nezumi brazenly flirted with Uzumaki Mito –

– and on the fifth day of summer, under a bright blue sky, the leaders of the Senju, Uchiha, and Uzumaki clans signed a charter to bind their clans under one banner, uniting them as allies in a single village.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wheeww! Done! I've been working on this fic for MONTHS now - definitely longer than I've worked on any of my other ones, hahaha. I'm pretty pleased with this one, so let me know what you thought in the comments! 
> 
> Did you like it? Did you hate it? Did you get confused and overwhelmed by my OC's? (because I did lmao) 
> 
> Again, huge thanks to everyone who supported my stuff on tubmblr, and especially huge thanks to secondmeteor, without whom I never would've started this fic at all! It's been a lot of fun to write, and I'm especially excited to go back through and link in all the art I've drawn for it so far on my tumblr (ancharan. tumblr. com)
> 
> Thank you so much for reading!


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